
Glass TS^__ 

Book 



GopyrightN ( 






C.OP_RIG!IT DEPOSE 



POEMS AND PLAYS 



POEMS AND PLAYS 



BY 



GERTRUDE BUCK 



Edited by 
LAURA JOHNSON WYLIE 




New York 
DUFFIELD & COMPANY 



1922 






Copyright, 1922, by 
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 



• • 
• . • 


PRINTED IN U. 


DEC 26 '22 


C1A692595 


<\M | 



CONTENTS 

Poems P age 

A Lodge in the Woods 3 

The Market Place 4 

The Complaint of Youth . 5 

Doubt's Guidance 6 

A Moment of Faith 7 

A Reflection g 

Peace 9 

Miracle iq 

Compensation \ \ 

A Song of Tomorrow 12 

"When Half-Gods Go, the Gods Arrive" 13 

Night Thought 14 

The Friend 15 

The Past 16 

The Question 17 

Gethsemane 18 

Circles 19 

What the Lightning Showed 20 

Autumn Rain 21 

A Pilgrim Song 1 22 

After Sunset 23 

Ephemeron 24 

Interlude 25 

The Clear Vision 26 

Foundations 27 

Tragedy 28 

Love's Cup 29 



Page 

Poetry I and II 30 

The Seeing Eye 31 

Surprise 32 

Bereavement 33 

The Road to Nowhere 34 

A Maine Road 35 

In a Tent 36 

The Middle Years 37 

Invocation 38 

A Pilgrim Song II 39 

An Epitaph 40 

The Return 41 

A New Heaven and a New Earth 42 

Children of God 44 

University Hymn 45 

At the Wind's Will 46 

The Witch Hazel 47 

Occasional Verse 49 

Fishing 51 

Berlin 52 

Mother-Love 57 

The Girl from the Marsh Croft 87 

The Funeral 169 

(The contents of this volume are, as far as possible, arranged in 
chronological order.) 



Grateful acknowledgments are due to Doubleday, 
Page and Company, who hold the American copyright 
for all Selma Lagerlof s works, for permission to publish 
The Girl from the Marsh Croft; to Drama for permission to 
reprint Mother Love; and, for permission to reprint 
various poems, to the Atlantic Monthly, the Century 
Magazine, Lippincott's Magazine, The Inlander, the 
Alpha Phi Quarterly, the Michigan Alumnus, the Vassar 
Quarterly and the Vassar Miscellany Monthly. 

Thanks are especially due to Miss Katharine Warren, 
Mrs. Louise Bacorn Buck and Miss Alice D. Snyder for 
unfailing kindness at every juncture when there was 
need of advice or assistance. 



PREFACE 



An introduction to such a volume as this may seem an 
impertinence ; what the author has to say must speak for 
itself and to its fitting audience. Yet the editor cannot 
let the book go out without a word as to the life-long 
interest of Gertrude Buck in imaginative writing and the 
part played by this interest in her intellectual and prac- 
tical life. She was, even to her friends, primarily the 
teacher, the thinker, the administrator, remarkable for 
constant and energetic advance towards new ends or for 
unflagging zeal in working out new experiments. But, 
however apparently absorbed in such tasks, she lived al- 
ways to a surprising degree outside and beyond them; 
was from first to last, as artist and poet, most deeply 
concerned with shaping into form some mood or charac- 
ter, some situation or idea, that had touched her imagi- 
nation. This creative impulse, moreover, grew with her 
growth, gave tone and character to everything she did, 
and in turn changed direction as she gained in maturity 
and in intellectual and emotional experience. 

There was never a time when Miss Buck was not di- 
rectly occupied with some piece of imaginative writing. 
Her literary experiments began in her school days. Be- 
fore she was graduated from college, she was recognized 
as a successful newspaper writer and a poet remarkable 
among her contemporaries for delicacy of technique and 
range and depth of emotion. Throughout her pro- 
fessional years, she found in the writing of verse or novel 
or play not only illumination of literary theory, but a 
counterpoise to the distracting demands of practical life. 
Almost her last definite plan was the completion of a 
novel dealing with contemporary social and academic 



PREFACE 

conditions, laid aside a few years before in the stress of 
a developing interest in drama. The strength of her im- 
aginative bent showed itself throughout her life in the 
use she made of such scanty leisure as came to her. A 
few days of vacation were prized less that she might hear 
or see some new thing than because in them her imagi- 
nation, released from daily service, could work out some 
one of the many themes always revolving in her mind. 

This persistence of the artistic impulse in her was the 
more remarkable because she responded whole-heartedly 
to calls, individual and social, that might easily have ab- 
sorbed all her energy. She began her career as a teacher 
just when the rapidly increasing number of students in 
Vassar was rendering the faculty acutely conscious of the 
need to reconstruct its educational theory and practice. 
The practical grasp of the issues involved and the thor- 
ough training in philosophy which she brought to this 
work of reconstruction were rare indeed among her 
colleagues ; and to these gifts she added a genuine passion 
for teaching and an administrative ability that forced her 
into the very center of the struggle between old and new 
conceptions of education. The tasks she set herself 
were the more arduous because she made no compromise 
with her ideal of perfection ; was as indefatigable in doing 
the kind of teaching in which she believed as in estab- 
lishing fundamental educational theories. When the 
vantage ground for which she had long striven was 
attained, and real and vital order realized, at least ap- 
proximately, in English teaching at Vassar, she was 
ready for the next step and at once enlarged her depart- 
mental activities by initiating and organizing two co- 
operative educational ventures, the Vassar Workshop 
and the Community Theatre of Poughkeepsie. Her 
work, from beginning to end of her professional career, 



PREFACE 

was thus that of the pioneer; and, like that of the pioneer 
in every field, pressed all her faculties into its service. 

The creative power that showed itself in her work as 
a teacher, was no less characteristic of her as a critic. 
Her intellectual gifts were in large part those of the 
poet. Perhaps most conspicuous among them was a 
vivid realization of individuality, whether in character, 
idea, or physical object. Her range of interests was 
singularly wide; her mind explored many fields, her re- 
sponse to forward-looking movements, whether social or 
literary, was immediate, her large circle of friends in- 
cluded people of all ages and condition. But although 
she ranged far, her thought was never weakened by 
diffusion, or paled into abstractness. Ideas took on with 
her the sharpness of individual existences; when most 
far-reaching they were seen in relation to the real life of 
real people. In even casual meetings, she was quick to 
recognize the unique qualities of personality. The gen- 
eralization thus embodied to her the richness of concrete 
experience; the concrete experience was illumined with 
the ideas it visualized or illustrated. With this vividness 
of perception she combined an exceptional power to trace 
out the relationship between objects and to recognize the 
laws operating in them. Conclusions never remained in 
her mind as mere conclusions, but became at once vital 
and active realities, living forces working for the dis- 
covery of ever-new truths. Her indefatigable challenge 
of every element in idea or term or fact might seem to the 
formally-minded meaningless repetition ; but her thought 
was fruitful precisely because of the Socratic temper with 
which in dealing with any subject she suffered nothing to 
remain that was not essential and operative, because ob- 
servation and generalization were alike but means for the 
attainment of a fuller and richer concept. 



PREFACE 

The simplicity she inexorably demanded was the 
necessary consequence of all her intellectual processes. 
It was based on concrete experience made significant by 
the fullest understanding. The isolated, the irrelevant, 
the confused — welcomed as first steps in the intellectual 
life — were tolerated for but a moment; in the end lucid- 
ity, significance, simplicity, were exacted of every 
thought or perception or emotion. Search for this fine 
clarity revealed itself in her every characteristic and in 
all aspects of her life. Her tastes, refined to asceticism, 
were yet instruments of exquisite discernment; her 
friendships were companionships in strenuous and dis- 
criminating pursuit of some excellence. The truth she 
prized shone in the "white light" of clearest vision; ex- 
perience she valued only as the whole energy was focused 
in the activity of the moment. Thought found its place 
in the intellectual life in so far as by simplifying and 
organizing knowledge, it made possible still further ad- 
vance; criticism was justified among the intellectual ac- 
tivities as it led to an idea informed with something of a 
Platonic vitality as well as a Platonic richness of content. 

The fact that Miss Buck was peculiarly at home in the 
world of imaginative creation or that the core of her ac- 
tivity in all fields was an imaginative power that habitu- 
ally led her beyond the analysis of her experiences to 
their reconstruction and expression, has of course noth- 
ing to do with the value of these writings themselves. 
Yet the editor stresses these points in view of their re- 
lation to the more obvious aspects of her life and work. 
There was nothing on which as thinker and teacher 
she insisted more energetically than on the general 
educational value of imaginative discipline. But the 
characteristic intellectual bias that both conditioned 
this conviction and was reinforced by it was in great part 



PREFACE 

concealed by the fact that her mind acted to an unusual 
degree as a whole, that her various faculties worked to- 
gether if they worked at all. In this volume, therefore, 
we have a key to much that, though implicit in every- 
thing she did, was not always evident to those who knew 
her chiefly as teacher or critic. Her imaginative writings 
were, in a very real sense, intellectual by-products, the 
avocations of a mind habitually preoccupied with thought 
and practice; but they were none the less signs of her 
constant return to those elemental and primary impulses 
which gave unmistakable character to everything she 
did and thought. 

LAURA JOHNSON WYLIE 

November, 1922. 



POEMS 



1] 



POEMS 



A LODGE IN THE WOODS 

The high-hole tapped upon my door; 
I rose to let him in. 
He stayed without, but on the floor 
Some leaves with scurrying din 
Swept past me, standing in my door 
To let the high-hole in. 

Through loosened thatches slips the rain, 

My fireside warmth to share, 

His fingers drum upon the pane, 

His blue robe fills the air 

With darkening swirl. Come in, Friend Rain, 

My fireside warmth to share. 

The sun sifts in at every chink, 
The winds whisk in and out. 
There's no room in my house to think 
And none to fear and doubt, 
For sun pours in at every chink, 
And winds whisk in and out. 



3] 



POEMS 



THE MARKET PLACE 

As when, a child, in covetous small hand 
I clasped the precious penny, lord of joy, 
Perplexed how best its powers to employ, 
Since worlds of pleasure lay in my command ; 
Each new lure all but helpless to withstand, 
Distraught 'twixt sweet and sweet, 'twixt toy and toy, 
Till need to choose became delight's alloy, 
And I bewildered stood in fairy land: 

So now, in marts where subtler goods are sold, 
My one unmeasured life in hand I hold, 
The child's delicious doubts and pangs recall; 
How may I best expend my coin small? 
I stand and palter while the day grows old — 
What shall I buy with life? It is my all. 



[4] 



POEMS 



THE COMPLAINT OF YOUTH 

But one short life! Thou niggard God, for shame! 
Canst give no more? A thousand doors stand wide. 
Wilt close them all save one thou bidst me name? 
I will not choose. I claim those lives denied! 



5] 



POEMS 



DOUBT'S GUIDANCE 

I went to walk with Doubt. 

In speech unfeigned the pregnant hours lapsed on, 

Till night came down and blotted landmarks out, 

And stars but faintly shone. 

Still on we walked and talked, till dawn's pale ray 

Showed unfamiliar all the scene about. 

A subtle pain 

Smote my sad^ heart and stung my weary brain, 

Yet all the world, new-born, before me lay, 

And, o'er the hills, upclimbed the purpling day. 

I turned to thank my guide — but Doubt was gone! 



[6] 



POEMS 



A MOMENT OF FAITH 

Myself at the core of the world, 
Myself at the center of time, 
The planets about me are whirled, 
Myself than the stars more sublime. 

Myself in the youth that is mine, 
Myself in the faith without stain; 
Naught is that I dare not resign, 
And naught that I shall not regain. 



[71 



POEMS 



A REFLECTION 

Though loneliness be with us as our breath 
While breath is ours, e'en that's at length outrun 
Our severed paths converge in thronging death, 
And in the world's great life the dead are one. 



8] 



POEMS 



PEACE 

Outstretched on the soft summer sod 

All tranquil I lie, 
About me the limitless air, 

Above, the wide sky. 
Within, not the shadow of care. 

Contented am I. 

Outstretched on the bosom of God, 

I do not inquire 
What gladness or grief may befall. 

His love cannot tire. 
God is and I am, that is all — 

What more to desire? 



9] 



POEMS 



MIRACLE 

I lay upon my bed last night and thought, 

As one faint star began its course to run. 

I slept and woke. A wonder had been wrought — 

Night's starry thought blazed forth a morning sun, 



10 



POEMS 



COMPENSATION 

Give me a voice, oh my masters, dread monarchs 

of pain — 
Words to loose the thoughts that are languishing, dumb 

and in prison. 
Speech is mine, by the right of the sorrow through which 

I have risen. 
Have I suffered, my masters, in vain? 



11 



POEMS 



A SONG OF TOMORROW 

Why dost turn thy face away, 

Fair tomorrow? 
Let me from thine aspect gay 

Joyance borrow 
For a chill and drear today. 

Nay, let not thine eyes betray 

Some new sorrow; 
Let me bear no more today: 

Dread tomorrow, 
Turn oh turn thy face away. 



[12 



POEMS 



'WHEN HALF-GODS GO, THE GODS ARRIVE" 

Great Love, unseen, unknown, 

I turn to Thee; 
Because I am, Thou art, 

And art for me. 
I banish love's sweet part 

For Love's best whole; 
I stand discrowned, alone, 

Bereft in soul. 
Great Love, I cannot see, 

Come Thou and comfort me! 



(13 



POEMS 



NIGHT THOUGHT 

My days slip by in sordid mummeries, 
Yet every night I turn my eyes to sleep 
A-smile, for thought of golden argosies 
That sail to me on some uncharted deep. 



[14] 



POEMS 



THE FRIEND 

"Hail, friend!" I cry, with foolish heart elate 
As stranger footsteps near my wide-flung gate. 
I scan each entering visage ; touched with grace 
Full many, but not one the longed-for face. 
They come and go. I sit here still and wait. 



15 



POEMS 



THE PAST 

The inn where I abode is sure enchanted. 
I strode thereout at break of day and left 
My goods behind. No backward look I granted; 
Yet strains of following music me bereft 
Of thought and sense. I knelt upon the sod 
And stopped my thirsting ears and prayed to God. 
So came I thence; but though I hold my will, 
That music through my heart is ringing still. 



16] 



POEMS 



THE QUESTION 

When I die, shall I know- 
Being wing of the fly, 
Blue crust of the snow, 
Chill wind sweeping by, 
Child's voice cooing low,- 
Shall I know I am I? 



17 



POEMS 



GETHSEMANE 

To look deep into Immolation's eyes 

And read denial there; 

Renounce renunciation, sacrifice 

The sacrificial impulse, dear as fair; — 

This cup to drink passed not away from me, 

I drained it dry in dark Gethsemane. 



[18] 



POEMS 



CIRCLES 

If but the sun could reach me where I lie 
Shadowed by bracken, I should grow so high 
He need not seek me : but without him I 
Shall ne'er attain him; he must pass me by. 



(19 



POEMS 



WHAT THE LIGHTNING SHOWED 

Brown roadways, rainy scented; night-black pools 
Which, lightning-smitten, flushed to golden dawn; 
Drenched tree-trunks velvet black, and troubled schools 
Of pale-faced leaves down pelted on the lawn. 



20 



POEMS 



AUTUMN RAIN 

The rain poured, sodden, gray, 
Through yellowing maple trees 
That lit, with subtle ray, 
The dull descending seas. 



[21] 



POEMS 



PILGRIM SONG I 

Heaven! the children are singing; 

Heaven! the preachers repeat; 

But the only heaven that is, boys, 

Is the on-pushing print of our feet: 

And our thirst for the waters that nowhere flow 

Though their lying babble be sweet. 



[22 



POEMS 



AFTER SUNSET 

A softly-quenched and purple brooding sky 
Over a dead gray sea ; — and you and I 
Saw wondering, as Galahad the Grail, 
Glow roseate, ecstatic, one far sail. 



23 



POEMS 



EPHEMERON 

Though love may endure but a day 
And sorrow a night, 
Though the moment takes flight 
And June crowds on May; 

Yet we love for a day 
And we weep through the night ; 
Crown the hours in their flight 
And dance out the swift May. 

For love is still love for a day, 
And grief stings the soul for a night 
The moment is ours till its flight, 
And May while it lasts is yet May. 



[24] 



POEMS 



INTERLUDE 

I have eaten and drunk the loves of men, 
I have hungered and I have been satisfied. 
The table is cleared — to be spread again? 
Who knows? It is long till the eventide. 



25] 



POEMS 



THE CLEAR VISION 

I caught the formless thing I feared to see 
And searched its shifty eyes. No secret sore 
In all its loathsome life eluded me. 
I saw, and weep. What profit have I more? 



[26 



POEMS 



FOUNDATIONS 

Under thy sumptuous blooming, 
Garden of Love, has the rain 
Washed from their scanty entombing 
Sodden gray bones of the slain. 



[27] 



POEMS 



TRAGEDY 

She could not nerve me whom she loved the best, 
Because she doubted (me she did not know!) 
Whether my strength sufficed to deal the blow. 
I faltered, paused — and failure tells the rest. 



28] 



POEMS 



LOVE'S CUP 

Stint but a paltry drop, the wine turns gall; 
Defer too long, thirst slips beyond recall; 
Then brim me now, or pour thou not at all! 



29] 



POEMS 



POETRY 

I. 
Life of man, still fling me forward in your surge, 
Follow swiftly, lest I fail and die; 
Drink me up, and, rainbow-haunted, onward urge — 
Flashing lift of answering deep am I. 

II. 

The heart of one cried out and the cry was song; 
One heard, and his own heart's cry was answered. 
Brothers unseen, the heart of each rested in the heart of 
the other. 



[30 



POEMS 



THE SEEING EYE 

The sun-bleached gray of trees in early spring 
Flushed at the tips with bloom, delight shall bring 
In fullest measure to those raptured eyes 
That traced black boughs chill etched on winter skies. 



[31] 



POEMS 



SURPRISE 

In that lone hour when, from a tear-blurred dream, 
One starts to know the old besieging pain 
Has leaped his walls, alarum tolls in vain ; 
The soul supine, far off the armor's gleam. 



[32 



POEMS 



BEREAVEMENT 

Through sob-racked nights and empty chattering days 
She feeds the perfumed censer of his praise : 
Bereft not yet until its flame burn low. — 
Let her not lose her loss — she must not know. 



[33] 



POEMS 



THE ROAD TO NOWHERE 

The road to Nowhere is white and still ; 
It slopes up softly, then dips from sight, 
Blue over its shoulder peers the hill, 
And brambles guard it to left and right. 



134 



POEMS 



A MAINE ROAD 

A glint of birches in the dusky pines, 
A sudden scent of balsam and sweet fern, 
Long starry plumes of wild blackberry vines, 
A flash of ocean at the roadway's turn. 



135] 



POEMS 



IN A TENT 

Tremulous shadows in shifting design 
Here on the sun-flooded canvas are met : 
Twinkling birch leaves and soft whorls of the pine, 
Wild cherry shoots and a tossing grape vine. 
Wings flash across, for an instant is set 
High on some twig a wee bird's silhouette. 



[36 



POEMS 



THE MIDDLE YEARS 

Yon closed red tulips, sleek and passionate, 

In silvery leafage their occasion wait. 

The wide-flung ardor of their opening 

Let him abide who craves its flame and sting: 

The wearied heart sates its extreme desires 

With folded petals and with smouldering fires. 



137 



POEMS 



INVOCATION 

Blown mist of rosy grasses, 
Into my singing drift. 
Kindle its cloven masses 
With lights that sway and shift, 
Within its dark impasses 
Your fairy torches lift. 

Brown rill through rushes wending, 
Where red-wings flash and dip, 
Lend me the rhythm bending 
Each dark reed's yellowing tip — 
The pause, the swift ascending, 
The careless slide and slip. 

Into my plodding measure 
Your least enchantment fling, 
Earth of the winds' wild pleasure 
And leaves' soft jargoning — 
Yield me but one hid treasure — 
Then listen, while I sing! 



38] 



POEMS 



PILGRIM SONG II 

The joy that lies curled 

In young fern-leaves close-furled 

Come seek through the world! 

Adown the dim hollow 

Where slides a still stream 

The jewel-weed's gleam 

O follow, O follow! 

Each quaint carven crown, 
Rose-flushed ivory down 
To its circlet of brown 
On stem of white clover, 
Lures earth-loving eyes 
From faces or skies, — 
Come, roam the field over! 

Ask naught but to trace 
On heaven's clear space 
That line of wild grace 
The flight of the swallow; 
The light on the hill, 
The thrush's low trill 
To follow, to follow. 



39 



POEMS 



AN EPITAPH 
A. B. B. 

Of sun and fields and every joy of sight 
A simple lover — Christ her spirit keep! — 
She toiled and prayed beneath a fading light ; 
The room was darkened and she fell asleep. 



40] 



POEMS 



THE RETURN 

By night my mother heard me sobbing, calling on her 

name, 
And from the blessed heights of death to comfort me she 

came. 

I flung myself once more upon my mother's gentle 

breast 
And sobbed out all the thorny griefs against my heart 

long pressed, — 

The hours I might have spent with her, the words I 

never said, 
The love I drank so carelessly till she who loved was 

dead. 

What I would say she knew, although my words were 

choked and wild : 
We sat close-locked ; my years slipped off ; naught was I 

but her child. 

Into my breast a healing came; black grief did from me 

part. 
I woke to peace; though death was king, my mother 

knew my heart. 

By night my mother heard me sobbing, calling on her 

name, 
And from the blessed heights of death to comfort me 

she came. 

[41] 



POEMS 



A NEW HEAVEN AND A NEW EARTH 

Fling wide the gates of heaven, God; 

We will not enter in 
Save with our brother whom Thy nod 

Hath sealed to want and sin. 

Fling wide the gates. Thy golden street. 

The Dispossessed shall stain 
With road-worn, broken, bleeding feet, 

The feet of toil and pain. 

Fling wide the gates. Thy glassy sea 

With anthems shall not ring; 
For these born thralls of misery, 

They know not how to sing. 

Thy many mansions swift unbar 

To men, who, huddled here, 
In dens unglimpsed of sun or star, 

Lie rotting, tier on tier. 

Upon Thy fields elysian set 

The sad old babes to play : 
Beside Thy living waters let 

The painted women stray. 

Else we, the fortunate, the strong, 
Whose heaven is where we be, 

Will follow with the outcast throng 
And leave Thy heaven to Thee. — 

[42] 



POEMS 

Yon God is naught. He cannot hear, 
Nor open heaven, nor bar; 

The living God to need is near, 
From privilege how far! 

By hands raised not to Him in prayer 

He builds our paradise; 
By our defeats, distrust, despair, 

Its walls unreckoned rise. 

Our eager, fumbling wills conspire 

Stone upon stone to rear 
The house of all the world's desire, 

Assured past faith or fear. 

Wherever vampire mine or mill 
Can drown not, clamoring high, 

With clang of steel and whistles shrill, 
The children's bitter cry; 

Where lords of labor dare no more 
In sweat-shop's reeking pen 

To gods of gain insatiate pour 
The royal blood of men ; 

Where beauty blooms on public ways, 

By kindly human plan, 
There lifts the edifice we raise 

Of man's goodwill to man. 

By many wrought, by none designed, 
On earth's firm sod it stands; 

The gift of men to all mankind, 
A heaven made with hands. 

[43] 



POEMS 



*CHILDREN OF GOD 

Children of God and heirs of His dominion, 
No fear, no ill against us shall prevail. 

Love bears us up on mighty, tireless pinion, 
Love that can never falter, never fail. 

Our strength renewed from God's eternal fountains, 
Singing we fare on His appointed ways; 

Glad are our feet upon His holy mountains, 
Our hearts enkindled at the torch of praise. 

Awe-stilled we watch life's harmony unfolding, 
Each shifting scene in God's design arranged; 

His glory we, with open face beholding, 

To that same image day by day are changed. 

O healing Truth, Thine uttermost salvation 
No power can bar from him who sees Thy face; 

Each day shall dawn a fuller revelation, 

Each night add knowledge of God's wondrous grace. 



♦Words copyrighted and used by permission. 

[44 1 



POEMS 



UNIVERSITY HYMN 

[Tune: Ancient of Days, by T. A. Jeffery] 
Deep lie thy roots, the state's unseen foundation, 

Thou Alma Mater, tree of life and light. 
Wrought in thy fiber, every generation 

Grows with thy growth and strengthens with thy might. 

Greatly they dreamed who planted thee, yet passing 
Man's hope and vision, still thou dost increase. 

All nations meet beneath thy verdure's massing; 
Thy leaves are for their healing and their peace. 

Girdling the earth, thy silent word fulfilling, 

'Neath Ceylon's palms or Oxford's "dreaming spires," 

In deeds unreckoned, in unconscious willing, 
Thy children keep alight thine altar fires. 

No morn shall see thy lofty head diminished, 
No sun behold thee less than thou hast been ; 

Not till time ends thy living growth be finished, 
Nor thy rich fruitage all be gathered in. 



45] 



POEMS 



AT THE WIND'S WILL 

As if some wild blackberry vine should lay 

One starry spray 

Athwart a broad-leafed fern, 

And stay 

A moment there, to turn 

Its sober verdure gay, 

So lightly, love, thy life doth hold with mine ; 

I must resign 

Its tender leaning when 

The vine, 

In some soft breeze again 

Tears loose each clinging spine. 

Yet, swaying, clasp we still as those who may 

Entwined decay. 

God grant this boon may be! 

And stay 

The careless wind, that we 

May finish so our day. 



46] 



POEMS 



THE WITCH HAZEL 

By blazoned autumn roads Witch Hazel stands. 

The ripe-hued lands 

Her coming wait, whose pale, uncertain ray 

Shall long outstay 

The aspen's twinkling gold, the flaming lines 

Of high-flung vines 

That wreathe dull cedars, and the tarnished glow 

Of corn a-row. 

In star-mist veiled, leaf-bare, her wands of light 

Turn back the flight 

Of summer days, and hold them, drunk with sun, 

While past them run 

November's shriveled hours of dark and cold. 

The season old 

Grows young with thee, thou tree of all men's dreams. 

Thy subtle gleams, 

Enkindled at the year's low-sinking fires, 

Wake dim desires 

For youth in age, for joy in hope's decay. 

For love's lost day. 

Thou autumn spirit, wraith of autumn's gold, 

Enchantress old 

That buddest out of time, thou Aaron's rod, 

The hand of God 

Hath touched thy barren stalk to blossoming, 

And lo, thy spring! 

r 47 1 



OCCASIONAL VERSE 



[49 



OCCASIONAL VERSE 



FISHING 

The wash of waters against the prow, 

The guttural grunt of the frog's bassoon, 

The far light laughter of the loon — , 

A hush of hopeful waiting — now 

A twitch on the line as if to say 

"Are the folks at home?" then the rascal turns 

And runs till the reel 'gainst your fingers burns. 

You jerk in answer "Yes, home today," 

Pull in the mischief with steady hand, 

Hold hard, no slack, — see his armor flash 

All silver green through the foaming splash! 

An instant more and he's brought to land — 

The devil! he's spewed the hook clean out 

And dived 'neath the boat with a leer and a flout! 



[51 



OCCASIONAL VERSE 



BERLIN 
HIS EPITAPH WRITTEN BY HIMSELF 

In life I was a sporty dog : I never took a dare. 
I always leaped before I looked, and landed — God knows 
where. 

Into a bath-tub, down a drain, upon a blazing fire, — 
'Twas one to me, who hurled myself straight at my 
heart's desire. 

I climbed back fences after cats, and scaled our own 

Dutch door, 
To greet my mistress home returned from journeys long 

and sore. 

But motor-cars my passion were. When one would 

gently glide 
Along the curb, I'd make a dash and boldly leap inside. 

If mistress had but followed me, and not been such a 

muff, 
We two had had some glorious spins; but women lack 

the stuff. 

Whene'er a car came sweeping on directly in my track 
I sat me down and scratched my ear, until it changed 
its tack. 



52 



OCCASIONAL VERSE 

My mistress chid me sternly, but you know what women 

are — 
I wonder what my life had been under another star. 

If I had had a master, and he a sporting gent, 

Black Johnson, say, or Jefferies — but I do not lament. 

My days knew scant excitement, save that I did create, 
But my dear mistress would for ills e'en greater com- 
pensate. 

And in that heaven where she holds we shall together be, 
Perhaps she'll lose her sole defect, and be a man like me. 



[53] 



MOTHER-LOVE 



[55] 



Characters 

Maggie Ross, a dressmaker 
Mrs. Ross, her mother 
Jim Ross, her brother 
Lura Ross, her sister 



[56 



MOTHER-LOVE 



[It is an evening in mid-December. Maggie's sewing- 
room is a low-ceiled, shabbily furnished room, with an out- 
side door in the back. Another door at the right opens into 
the kitchen. A third door at the left leads upstairs. There 
is a window in the back wall. A small door-bell, connected 
by a visible wire with the outside door, hangs from the 
ceiling in the corner of the room. An old-fashioned hair- 
cloth-covered sofa stands against the wall, with a small table 
at its head. A high chest of drawers is at the back of the 
room and a large round table with a lamp on it is in the 
center. A small, brightly-glowing coal-stove is at the right 
front, a folding screen covered with gay cretonne back of it, 
opened against the right wall. A figure for fitting dresses, 
standing at one side, has on it an ugly, unfinished dress of 
wide-striped black and red silk. The bright-colored, well- 
worn ingrain carpet is strewn with snippets of cloth and 
bits of basting cotton. Paper patterns and fashion-plates 
from magazines are pinned to the coarse lace window cur- 
tains and the flower-papered walls. Maggie is standing 
over the sofa on which Mother is lying, propped up high 
on a pile of cretonne-covered pillows, with a knitted afghan 
spread over her. Maggie is a middle-aged woman with a 
delicate-featured face which, though worn and sometimes 
anxious in expression, seems to be lighted from within by 
an absorbing happiness. She wears a shabby serge dress 
and a white apron, with a red pin-cushion full of pins 
hanging from her belt. Mother is attired in a tumbled 

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MOTHER-LOVE 

lavender kimono trimmed lavishly with cheap machine- 
made lace. Her white hair falls untidily about her sleek, 
self-indulgent, self-satisfied face. 

Maggie [cheerfully]: It's a little better, isn't it, 
Mother? Just a little? 

Mother [in a feeble but irritable voice] : Maggie, how 
often have I told you not to ask me questions when I 
have a headache? You always make it worse. 

Maggie [arrested by contrition in the act of dropping the 
cloth into the basin]: Oh, I hope I haven't this time, 
Mumsie dear! I thought it must be nearly well. 

Mother [petulantly]: No, it isn't. And it won't be, 
if you act like this. [She sighs deeply and closes her eyes. 
Maggie dips the cloth in the water, wrings it out, and lays 
it on Mother's head. Mother snatches it off. — In a voice of 
intense exasperation] : Don't put that thing on me again! 

Maggie [surprised]: Oh, I thought — 

Mother [plaintively, recovering her feeble tone]: It 
doesn't do me a speck of good. Nothing does. [With a 
yawn, followed by a heavy sigh.] I might as well go to bed, 
I s'pose. But of course I can't sleep. 

Maggie [takes the cloth from Mother, drops it into 
the basin, and wipes her hands on the towel lying be- 
side it]: Yes, do go, Mumsie. Lura has got your bed 
open for you and she's going to bathe your head- with 
cologne, till you drop off. 

Mother [pettishly, with half closed eyes]: I'd rather 
have you. 

Maggie [imploringly] : Oh Mumsie, do let her do it. 
She loves to take care of people. And I could just about 
finish her doll, while she's upstairs. [She takes half- 
dressed doll out of the chest of drawers and displays it 
admiringly.] Isn't her little hat sweet? Lura will be 
tickled to pieces when she sees that blue-jay feather on it. 

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MOTHER-LOVE 

Mother [opening her eyes wide, and sitting up] : Maggie 
Ross, are you going to give her that doll — after all I've 
said? 

Maggie [takes her work-basket, and sits down to sew 
on the doll's dress] : Why, Mother dear, that's what she 
wants. I can't give her grown-up things, you know. 
She'd be so disappointed. 

Mother [fiercely]: Well, if you like to see a gray- 
headed woman messing 'round with dolls and picture- 
books, other people don't! It makes me so sick I can 
hardly live. You might think once in a while of my 
feelings. 

Maggie [laying aside the doll, jumps up from her 
chair and sits beside Mother on the sofa]: Oh, Mother 
dear, I do. But Lura isn't a gray-headed woman to me, 
you know. I guess I see her the way she sees herself — 
just a little girl eight years old. [Tenderly.] And we 
must make her happy, mustn't we? It's all we can do 
for her. 

Mother [acidly]: Oh, of course, if she's only happy. 
Nobody cares about me. It's all Lura with you. [With 
rising anger.] I guess I know what is best for my own 
child, Maggie Ross, but you never listen to me. Any- 
body 'd think she was your child, instead of mine. 

Maggie: Why, no, Mother. But it's for her 
Christmas. 

Mother: Christmas! Don't talk about Christmas 
to me. What kind of a Christmas will it be for me, I'd 
like to know, with my boy at the ends of the earth, or 
maybe lying in his grave? 

Maggie [trying to put her arms around Mother]: Oh, 
Mumsie, dear, I know. But couldn't you — just for 
Lura and me — 

Mother [putting her away]: No, I couldn't. And I 

[59] 



MOTHER-LOVE 

don't want any presents from either of you. Just re- 
member that. 

Maggie: Oh, Mother, not anything at all? 

Mother: No. You can give me the money you 
were going to spend for me, if you want to. But I 
won't have anything else. 

Maggie: But, Mother, we're only making some little 
things for you. They don't cost anything much. But 
they give us the Christmas feeling. 

Mother: Well, if they don't cost but a nickel, I'd 

rather have that than anything you'd buy with it and 

fuss up. There's no Christmas feeling for me till my 

boy comes home, and I ain't going to pretend there is. 

[Lura's voice is heard from above.] 

Lura: Maggie. 

Maggie [going to stair door and opening it]: Yes, 
dear. 

Lura [accusingly]: I'm waiting an' waiting. 

Maggie: Mother's coming — just a minute. 

Mother [fretfully]: Where's my handkerchief, 
Maggie? 

Maggie: It must be on the sofa. [She looks for it 
behind Mother, finds and shakes it out. It is seen to be 
full of holes.] 

Maggie [giving it to her]: Oh, Mother, dear, haven't 
you any better handkerchiefs than this? 

Mother [with conscious heroism] : It doesn't matter. 

Maggie: Didn't you buy some new ones with the 
money I gave you? [Mother purses her lips and looks 
complacently mysterious, but does not answer.] I guess she 
embezzled it again, the bad Mumsie, and put it in her 
secret drawer. Well, I might have known she would. 
[She sighs involuntarily.] 

Mother [rising indignantly and looking down on 



60 



MOTHER-LOVE 

Maggie with an outraged expression]: Embezzle, Miss 
Maggie? That is a strange word for a daughter to use 
about her mother. 

Maggie [rising and attempting to take Mother's hands, 
which Mother impatiently withdraws] : Oh, Mumsie, dear, 
I'm only joking, of course. But I can't bear to have you 
go without things so. 

Mother [with sad dignity] : It is for my boy, Maggie. 
I want nothing for myself. t 

Maggie [with a sigh]: Take some of my handker- 
chiefs, dear, till I can buy a few new ones. We're nearly 
out of coal, and Lura's shoes — 

Mother: I am used to doing without things. It is 
a mother's lot to sacrifice for her children. 

Lura [from above] : Maggie, hurry up! 

Maggie: Yes, dearie, coming right away. Want 
your novel, Mother? [She picks up a volume from the 
sofa.] 

Mother [languidly]: I've finished that. Lura must 
go to the library for me, tomorrow. 

Maggie: All right. Good-night, Mumsie. Pleasant 
dreams! 

Mother [ascending the stairs] : I don't expect to sleep 
at all. Good-night. 

[Maggie folds the afghan and lays it smoothly over the 
foot of the sofa, sets the pillows in order, and takes the basin 
from the table into the kitchen. The door -bell rings softly 
and she re-enters hastily, smoothing her apron with her 
hands as she goes to the outside door and opens it wide.] 

Maggie: Good evening. 

Jim [outside]: Good evening. Is this Miss Ross? 

Maggie: Yes. Is there something — ? 

Jim: Can I see you a few minutes? A little matter 
of business. 



61 



MOTHER-LOVE 

Maggie: Why certainly. Won't you come in? 

[Jim enters with a jaunty yet somewhat uncertain air. 
Removing his hat, he shows a bald head with a fringe of gray 
hair about it, a gray Van Dyke beard and pointed mous- 
tache, perched incongruously on a fat red face. Heavy 
glasses almost conceal his eyes, but he looks easy-going, im- 
pressionable, sympathetic. His overcoat is worn but of a 
stylish cut. At first glance one might place him in a higher 
social class than Maggie's. Maggie offers him a chair by 
the table.] Please sit down. 

[Jim pulls off his overcoat and lays it with his hat on the 
chair Maggie indicates, turns another with its back to the 
lamp and sits down. Maggie sits near him, facing the 
light. Jim devours with his eyes her face and every detail 
of the room, but she seems wholly unconscious of his 
scrutiny, absorbed in the business in hand.] 

Jim: I'm looking for a room, and a lady up the street 
told me maybe I could rent one here. 

Maggie [surprised]: Oh, no, I'm afraid not. We 
haven't any room. That is . . [She stops abruptly, as if 
struck by a new idea, and clasps and unclasps her hands, 
looking from Jim to the stairway door with alternate eager 
desire and despondency. With an almost imperceptible 
shake of the head, she drops her hands quietly into her lap.] 

Jim [regretfully] : I wish you had. I'd like to stay here 
first-rate. 

Maggie [glancing again toward the stairs] : There is a 
room that we don't use now for anyone, but Mother 
wouldn't hear of it, I'm sure. 

Jim [in a hushed, sympathetic tone]: Belonged to some 
one who's dead? 

Maggie: It's my brother's room. He's been away 
twenty-eight years now, and it's sixteen years this 
Christmas since we heard from him. 



[62 



MOTHER-LOVE 

Jim: Well, that don't look as if he'd be wanting to 
use his room right away, does it? 

Maggie: No. And I wish we could let you have it. 
[Again clasping and unclasping her hands and leaning for- 
ward eagerly .] I wonder — do you believe in prayer? 

Jim [kindly, but with an embarrassed chuckle] : Well, I 
don't know as I do, much. There might be something 
in it. 

Maggie: I do wish I knew. I've been asking God to 
show me some way to earn a little money, and it seems 
as if He must have sent you. 

Jim [with another chuckle, half -tender, half-amused]: 
Well, 'sposin' He did? 

Maggie [with conviction]: He must have done it. I 
never even thought of that room. But I don't know 
what Mother will say? 

Jim: Will she mind awfully? 

Maggie [in an awed tone]: You don't know what it 
means to her. [With intensity.] But we've got to have 
a new roof. The old one can't be mended any more. 
And it costs almost a hundred dollars! [She looks at 
Jim for sympathy.] 

Jim [feelingly] : That's a terrible price! 

Maggie [with a stifled sigh, looking toward the figure] : 
And I can't do very much dressmaking, what with the 
housework and all, though Lura's a wonderful help, for 
a child, so — 

Jim [startled]: A child? 

Maggie [with a low, tender laugh] : She isn't really a 
child, she's my older sister, but she had an awful sickness 
when she was eight years old and her brain never grew 
after that, so she's always stayed just the way she was 
then. 



[63 



MOTHER-LOVE 

Jim [thoughtfully]: I see. Well, I should think you'd 
have to rent a room, if you've got one to rent. 

Maggie [desperately]: Yes, I must. But I don't be- 
lieve Mother will. If you take it, you won't mind, will 
you, if she tells you to go? 

Jim [chuckling] : No, I won't mind. Shall I stay right 
on till she begins throwing the flatirons? 

Maggie [reproachfully] : Oh you mustn't laugh. That 
room — well, it's really sacred to her, because it was 
Jim's. She's never let anybody sleep in it — not even 
Lura or me. Lura sleeps with me and she'd like a room 
all her own. But Mother couldn't do it. Oh, I'm sure 
she won't let you stay in it! 

Jim: But if you need money so much — 

Maggie: Mother doesn't think much about money, 
only for Jim. 

Jim: For Jim? Why, she doesn't know where he is. 

Maggie: No, but she thinks Jim will ask her to 
come and live with him some day, and she wants to have 
money to go with. Or she thinks maybe he will fall 
sick and she must go where he is and have something to 
help him with. She thinks everything of Jim. 

Jim [with half-smothered irritation]: Well, why should 
she? What's he ever done for her? Did he use to send 
her money before he quit writing? 

Maggie [reluctantly]: Well, no. But he couldn't 
really. He didn't get on very well, I guess. And it's 
hard for a man to economize, don't you think so? They 
don't know how, the way a woman does, That's what 
Mother always says. 

Jim [with a snort of contempt]: I know his sort, all 
right. 

Maggie [really hurt]: You don't know Jim. You 
couldn't help liking him, if you did. 

[64] 



MOTHER-LOVE 

Jim [with an obstinate wag of the head]: You bet I 
could! But I'll tell you what I'll do, if you want me to. 
I'm going west myself, in a month or so, and, if you'll 
tell me where your brother was when he wrote you the 
last letter, I'll look him up. 

Maggie [in a flutter of delight] : Oh , would you , really ? 
He was in Phoenix, Arizona. It seems too much for you 
to do, for strangers, so. But if you could find him, it 
would be more to Mother than anything else in the 
world. 

Jim [gruffly]: 'Twouldn't be much to you, I s'pose, 
and I don't blame you. 

Maggie: Oh, yes, it would. But he's all Mother has, 
you know. And I've got Lura. [Her face lights at 
Lura's name.] 

Jim [exasperated] : Say, your Mother's got you, hasn't 
she, and Lura, too? 

Maggie: Oh, but daughters can't be like a son, you 
know — an only son. She thinks about him all the time, 
I guess, but Christmas and her birthday are the worst 
of all. She always used to get a letter on those days, 
and when she doesn't, we can't do anything to make her 
happy. She just sits and grieves over Jim. It's awful 
to see her. 

Jim: Must be pretty tough. 

Maggie: Yes, sometimes we can't get her to speak 
to either of us for days and days. I feel so bad for Lura, 
you know. She ought to have a happy childhood, don't 
you think so? even if it is an extra long one. Seems, 
if that's all we can do for her, just make her happy. 

Jim [in a choked voice]: Say, I guess you're Lura's 
mother, all right. 

Maggie [shocked at the idea]: Oh, no. I couldn't be 
that. Mother says if you're not really a mother, you 

[65] 



MOTHER-LOVE 

can't know how a mother feels; and I'm not, you know. 
I'm not married. 

Jim [indignantly]: What's that got to do with it? 
I've seen women runnin' over with kids that was no 
more mothers than I am. An' some ole maids — why, 
Good Lord! They mothered everything in sight. 

Maggie [softly, her face kindling] : I wish I was her 
mother. 

Jim [looking at her speculatively] : I don't see why you 
didn't get married. 

Maggie [surprised]: Why, I couldn't. What would 
Mother and Lura do? 

Jim: Sure enough. What would they? Well, if I 
get hold of that brother of yours, I'll make him come 
home and look after his family if I have to kick him all 
the way from Arizona. 

Maggie [sternly]: If you're going to talk like that to 
him, you needn't look him up at all. None of us feels 
that way about Jim. 

Jim: Well, you have a good right to. 

Maggie: Say, I wish you'd put yourself in Jim's 
place, once. Things were hard for him here. I see just 
how it was, now. 

Jim: The deuce you do! 

Maggie: I couldn't help seeing. It isn't natural for 
a boy to be loving his mother all the time, I 'spose; and 
Mother is a great one for petting and love-talk. Jim 
couldn't bear to disappoint her — he has the kindest 
heart — so he had to go off some place where he wouldn't 
feel like a brute. 

Jim [with great satisfaction]: That's it. He had to. 
[In sudden revulsion.] But he was a dirty quitter, just 
the same. [Maggie does not notice his words. Steps are 
heard on the stair. Maggie's eyes turn toward the door; 

[66 1 



MOTHER-LOVE 

her face lights with gentle happiness. She rises hastily, 
puts the doll into a drawer, and turns for an instant toward 
Jim.] 

Maggie: Here's my little girl. 

[The stair-door is pushed softly open and Lura enters. 
Her figure is that of a small, slight, elderly woman. She 
wears steel-bowed spectacles, but her face is unlined, and 
her expression is wistfully appealing, like that of a child. 
Her iron-gray hair is held back by a child's circle-comb 
and tied with a red-ribbon top-knot. Her short, red and 
blue plaid, woolen dress is made in a child' 's fashion. " Her 
movements are timid, yet without the self-consciousness of 
an adult. Maggie goes to meet Lura, who hesitates at 
sight of Jim, puts her arm around her and leads her 
forward.] 

Maggie: Come in, dear. This is my sister Lura. 
This gentleman has come to see about renting a room, 
but I'm afraid we haven't got any for him. [Jim rises 
and offers his hand. His expression is wholly kind and 
pitiful.] 

Jim: How do you do — Lura? 

Lura [shakes hands, looking solemnly into Jim's 
face, and turning to Maggie]'. Is it brother Jim? 

Maggie: Oh, no dear. [To Jim.] She asks God 
every night to send brother Jim home to us, so when- 
ever any man comes to the house on an errand she 
thinks it must be Jim. I don't wonder; it's been a long 
time. [To Lura.] But God hasn't sent him yet, dear. 

Lura [decisively]: I think it's time He did, don't you, 
Maggie? [She fondles Maggie's hand, swinging her arm 
by it and looking shyly at Jim.] 

Jim [steps forward with an air of sudden decision 
and takes Lura's other hand]: Lura, you tell sister 
Maggie you guessed it, first time. It is brother Jim! 

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MOTHER-LOVE 

Lura [jumps up and down, chanting ecstatically}: 
He's come home for Christmas! 'n brought me some 
presents! 

Maggie [incredulously, putting out a hand to still 
Lura]\ Jim? No, 'tisn't. 

Jim [gently]: Yes, it is. I thought you wouldn't 
know me. I've got so fat and bald. And these glasses. 
[ He takes them of. Maggie moves toward him as if in a 
dream, and suddenly flings herself into his arms.] 

Maggie [in a sobbing voice] : Oh, Jim, why didn't you 
tell me? Here I went on talking like a great zany, telling 
you all the things you knew — 

Jim: You told me lots I didn't know, too. 

Lura [charging upon his pockets]: What'd you bring 
me? A doll an' — 

Maggie [pulling Lura's hands away}: Lura, dear. 
You mustn't. That's rude. Let me talk to brother Jim 
a minute. [She keeps an arm around Lura as she turns 
again to Jim.] Did you come clear from Arizona, Jim? 
I can't believe it. 

Jim [laughing in some embarrassment] : Oh, I ain't been 
in Arizona for fifteen years. I just happened to be down 
to the races at Galesburg an' so I thought mebbe I'd 
run over an' — an' take a look at things here. 

Maggie [looking earnestly into his face]: Oh, Jim, 
didn't you mean to come home? 

Jim [uneasily]: Oh, well, I didn't know what I was 
goin' to do. Thought I'd prospect 'round a little an' 
see. An* it came to me I'd get the laugh on you, askin' 
for a room an' makin' you talk some about me, if I 
could. That went slick, didn't it? You're an easy 
mark, Magsie. 

Maggie: I don't care. 

Jim: Well, I guess the laugh's on me, all right. 



68 



MOTHER-LOVE 

You've put me wise what a low-lived scoundrel I've 
been, leavin' you to hold up the house all these years. 
But I'm goin' to give you a lift now — you just watch me. 

Maggie: Oh, that's all right, Jim. The only thing 
is — I do wish you'd written to Mother. 

Jim: I ought to have, Maggie, I know. If I'd only 
struck it rich, I could of sent some money home; but all 
I could scrape up seemed to go, somehow, 'n Mother 
kep' teasin' me to send for her till I just dreaded to get 
a letter. I couldn't cook up anything more to put her 
off with — so then I had to stop writin'. 

Maggie: Why — Mother doesn't know yet! I must 
tell her, this minute. Oh, Jim, I'm so glad! 

[She flings her arms around his neck and kisses him 
rapturously, then goes upstairs. Lura makes another 
charge upon Jim's pockets and in spite of his efforts to de- 
fend them pulls out first a much soiled handkerchief, then 
a very flat leather purse, and a cigar case.] 

Lura [with disappointment as each article is disclosed] : 
Oh, a handkerchief! A purse! What's that? [Jim opens 
it for her.] 

Jim: It's a case for cigars, Sis, but not a blame one 
left in it. Want to smell? [He holds it to her nose. 
She wrinkles it in disgust.] 

Lura: Ugh! It's a nasty smell. I can feel what's 
in this pocket. [She traces the outline of some object with 
her hands, while Jim holds the opening so that she cannot 
get into it.] Just a bottle. A medicine bottle. Do you 
have to take medicine? 

Jim [with a grimace]: Sometimes. But look here, 
little one. Christmas is quite a ways down the road, 
yet. And children that pry don't get any presents at 
all, you know. 

Lura: Well, I won't then. [Jim sits down and she 

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MOTHER-LOVE 

perches on the arm of his chair, rubbing her head against 
his sleeve as she talks. Jim takes her hands in his and 
fondles them.] Do you eat an egg for your breakfast? 

Jim: Yes, if I can get it. 

Lura [warningly]: It makes you fat. Mother does, 
but Maggie and I don't. We don't want to be fat. I 
want to fly, 'n you can't fly if you're fat. Maybe you're 
too fat. I shouldn't wonder ... I don't want to fly like 
an angel, you know. They can't fly till they're dead. 
I want to fly like a bird. They fly all around while 
they're alive. I 'most flew once, but then I fell down. 

Jim [with a laugh] : Where d'you learn so much about 
angels. In Sunday School? 

Lura: Yes, but I don't go any more. Maggie won't 
let me. I think it's mean. But there are some boys 
that aren't very nice. Maggie doesn't want me to play 
with them. We have a Sunday School at home Sunday 
afternoons, but it isn't as nice as the real one. We can't 
sing, 'cause Mother is taking a nap. Shall I sing you a 
song I learned in the real Sunday School? 

Jim: Yes. 

[Lura snuggles up closer to him and sings in a breathy, 
somewhat uncertain old voice, which still has something in 
it of the child-like quality.] 

Lura: "I think when I re-ad that sweet sto-ory of 
o-old, 
When Je-sus was he-ere a-mong men, 
How He ca-alled little chil-drun like la-ambs to his fold, 
I would like to uv be-en with him then." 
— Don't you think that's a nice song? 

Jim [swallowing] : Yes, very nice, dear. You can sing 
it again for me, sometime. 

Lura: Yes, and I know another — But I guess I'd 
ruther play face-tag. [She darts her face toward his, 

[70] 



MOTHER-LOVE 

shouting, "Face-tag!" then averts it and runs across the 
room, keeping her face to the wall.] 

Jim [strides across the room to her, takes her by the 
shoulder and turns her face around to him] : Face- tag. I 
see your face. 

Lura [beating him with her fists] : No fair, no fair. 
Face- tag, I see yours. [She darts to the other side of the 
room, with her face averted. The stair-door opens and 
Mother plunges into the room. Her hair has been roughly 
combed back into an approximation of tidiness. She 
rushes upon Jim with arms outstretched.] 

Jim: Hullo, Mother. 

Mother: My son! My son! [She folds him in her 
arms and lays her head on his shoulder. Jim kisses her 
and puts his arms around her.] 

Jim [in a cooing, caressing voice]: Guess the little 
Mumsie is pretty glad to see her big boy, isn't she? 

Mother [in a choked, hysterical voice]: Glad! Oh, 
Jim, you don't know what I've suffered. 

Jim [patting her arm soothingly]: Been lonesome for 
her big boy, has she? Well, it's all over now. Come 
and tell him all about it. [He leads her to an easy chair 
and sits on the floor beside her, his head leaning against her 
knee. She strokes his hair and frequently bends down to 
kiss his forehead or his ear. Lura brings a little hassock, 
and a battered, old picture-book and seats herself near the 
stove where the light from it falls on her book. She looks 
up from time to time, listening to what is said.] 

Mother: Oh, Jim, my darling, why didn't you write 
to your Mother? 

Jim: Why, Mumsie dear, I couldn't write any more 
till I had some good news for you. I thought every year 
I was going to make a haul, but I didn't — and — well, 

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MOTHER-LOVE 

what was the use, saying the same old things and never 
making good? 

Mother: I could have sent you some money, Jim, 
to make a start with, if I'd only known where to send it. 
Not much, of course, but I've been saving it for you all 
these years. 

Jim: Dear little Mumsie! But I guess you and 
Maggie need it worse than I do. 

Mother: I don't need anything but you, Jim. Oh, 
you will stay with me, won't you — as long as I can be 
with you? It won't be many years now — [She breaks 
into a sob and weeps into her handkerchief for a moment, 
then heroically smiles through her tears. Jim rises and 
puts his arms around her, laying his cheek against hers.] 
You will, won't you, my boy? 

Jim [fervently]: I will, Mumsie, darling. I'll never 
leave you again. 

Mother [solemnly]: This is the happiest moment of 
my life. If you only knew what I have gone through in 
these thirty years, shut up day after day with a human 
sewing-machine and an everlasting baby! 

[Lura looks up from her book.] 

Jim [quickly]: Lura, dear, don't you want to go up- 
stairs and help Maggie? I guess she's getting my room 
ready for me. 

Lura [pouting]: It's cold upstairs, 'xcept in Mother's 
room. 

Mother: Don't bother about her. She doesn't 
understand. 

Lura [indignantly]: I do, too. I understand every 
word you say, so there now. 

Mother [shrugging her shoulders and turning wearily 
to Jim]: There, you see what I've had to endure. I 
wonder I have kept my own senses. 

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MOTHER-LOVE 

Jim: If it's cold upstairs, Lura, please tell sister 
Maggie to come down. We don't want her to catch 
cold, do we? 

Lura: Well. [She drops her book on the hassock and 
goes upstairs. Jim sits on the arm of Mother's chair.] 

Mother: She ought to be put in an institution. 
There are places enough for such people. I think it's a 
crime to let them live with us, don't you? You'll find 
my ideas very modern on all such questions. But I 
can't do a thing with Maggie. I'm positively afraid to 
speak to her again about it. You don't know how-fierce 
she can be if anyone says a word about Lura. And I 
felt so helpless here all alone with her. [Her voice hints 
at tears.] 

Jim: Why, Mother, you wouldn't separate Lura from 
Maggie, would you? She'd be miserable, and I guess 
Maggie would too. 

Mother [acridly] : I don't know why I should be the 
only one to bear things. 

Jim: But there's nothing repulsive about Lura. She 
just hasn't grown up. I don't see anything so dreadful 
in that. 

Mother: Of course you can take it lightly, Jim. 
It's nothing to you. But just suppose you were — Oh, 
I can hardly say it — her mother? Oh, it's too horrible! 
I think I should have gone mad pretty soon, if you 
hadn't come. You have no idea what I've been through! 
Many a day I've had to sit from early morning till far 
into the night reading some exciting book that would 
keep these dreadful thoughts away. I didn't know what 
I might do. And I wanted my boy to find his mother, 
when he came home. [She lowers her voice on the last 
sentence and buries her face on Jim's shoulder.] 

Jim [caressing her hair]: I wish you wouldn't feel 

[73f] 



MOTHER-LOVE 

that way about it, Mother. Poor little Lura! It's 
worse for her than it is for any of us. 

Mother [firmly, raising her head in protest]: I don't 
think so at all. She is happy enough. And Maggie 
doesn't mind. / have all the suffering. But that seems 
to be a mother's lot. 

Jim: Ssh. 

[Maggie enters, followed by Lura.] 

Maggie: Your room's all ready, Jim. It's not very 
warm, I'm afraid, but you must pop into bed as quick 
as you can. 

Jim [rising and stretching himself]'. Well, that sounds 
good. But I'm going to talk to you a while, Sis, before 
I turn in. 

Mother [jealously]: Why you've been visiting with 
Maggie all the evening! I must have my boy now. 
Come up to my room, dearest, and we'll have one of our 
old bedtime talks. [Sentimentally.] I wonder if you re- 
member them as I do. 

Jim [grimly]: Yes, I remember them. But I guess 
I'll make a bee line for my room tonight. I'm fair 
dopey for sleep. Haven't had much lately. 

Mother: Come right up with me, then, and after 
we've had our little talk I'll tuck you in, just as I always 
used to. [Jim makes an involuntary grimace, which 
Mother catches.] What is it, Jim, dear? Are you in pain 
anywhere? 

Jim: A grumble in a tooth once in a while, that's all. 

Mother: You poor, dear boy! And you never said 
a word about it. I shall give you a tooth-plaster to 
put on it. 

Jim: No, thanks, Mother. The toothache for mine. 
Well good-night, Maggie-girl. [Aside, as he kisses her.] 
See you later — if I can work it. [ He takes Lura's face 

174 1 



MOTHER-LOVE 

between his hands and kisses her on both cheeks.] Good- 
night. Sleep tight. 

Lura [giggling delightedly] : Good-night. Sleep tight. 
[Mother advances to Lura with an air of nerving herself to 
do a beautiful act, and kisses her kindly on the forehead.] 

Mother: Good-night, Lura. 

Lura [a little mystified] : Goo'-night. 

[Mother goes to Maggie and prints a kiss on her cheek. 
Maggie returns the kiss warmly, her arms about Mother.] 

Maggie: Good-night, Mother. I'm so glad. You 
must sleep well tonight. 

[Jim opens the stair-door for Mother. Mother draws 
Jim to her, and stands with an effect of tableau, at the door, 
as she speaks with sad sweetness.] 

Mother: I am far too happy to sleep, but I hope 
my children will. 

[Mother and Jim go upstairs.] 

Maggie : Come here, dear, and let me unfasten your 
dress. [She sits down and Lura backs up to her, while 
Maggie unbuttons her dress, unties her hair ribbon, takes 
out her comb, and braids her hair loosely for the night.] 

Lura: I don't have to ask God any more to send 
brother Jim home, do I? 'Cause he's here. [She laughs.] 

Maggie: No, dear, but you might thank God for 
sending him. 

Lura: Aw ri'. Will he play with me in the morning 
after I've taken Mother's breakfast up? 

Maggie: Maybe for a little while, dear. But he'll 
probably have to go to his work pretty soon. 

Lura [disappointedly]: Oh, is he going to work every 
day, too? 

Maggie: I hope so, dear. [Giving her a little push as 
she finishes braiding her hair.] There, go and get on your 
nightie. Hang your clothes neatly over the chair, so you 

[75 1 



MOTHER-LOVE 

can dress fast in the morning. [Lura goes behind the 
screen. She calls.] 

Lura : He eats an egg for his breakfast — when he can 
get one. 

Maggie: Well, I'm afraid he can't have one to- 
morrow morning. There's only one for Mother. [She 
looks toward the stairway door from which Jim enters 
noiselessly, shoes in hand. He shuts the door without a 
sound, makes a gesture of silence to Maggie, hastily pulls 
on his shoes, picks up his overcoat and hat from the chair 
and puts them on.] 

Maggie [fearfully]: Oh, Jim, where are you going? 

Jim: Damned if I know. I've got to get out. That's 
all. 

Maggie [as if stunned]: Are you going away — to- 
night? 

Jim: You bet I am. The quicker the sooner. Be- 
fore she gets her claws in me, the old vampire. What 
the hell I ever came back for — [He lifts his hands and 
drops them, shaking his head, in a gesture of hopeless in- 
comprehension.] 

Maggie [breathlessly]: But Jim, you mustn't — it will 
kill her to have you go off like this. 

Jim: If she stood in that door now, I'd shoot her to 
get out. That's how I feel. 

Maggie: Oh, no, Jim. Don't say that. How can 
you mind anything she does, when you know how she 
loves you? 

Jim [disgustedly] : Loves me! Aw, Maggie, you've got 
too much sense to swallow all the talk she hands out. 
Do you s'pose I'd mind the kissin'-matches, an' tears 
leaked all over me or any of the rest of it, if there was 
anything to it, really? But you know there ain't. 
What'd you s'pose Mother cares about me — what I'm 

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MOTHER-LOVE 

thinkin' about, or whether I'm square an' decent, or 
anything like that, just so as the pettin' and play-actin' 
goes right along? That's all she wants. But I'm 
damned if I'll play up to it any more. It makes me too 
sick. 

[Maggie sits looking at him, wide-eyed , clasping and un- 
clasping her hands, then rising, she throws her arms about 
him in an anguish of entreaty.] 

Maggie: Oh, Jim dear, I know she didn't bring you 
up right. But can't you bring yourself up, now? Oh, 
do stay and help make things comfy for Lura. Can't 
you, Jim? 

[As she speaks Lura emerges from behind the screen with 
a red woolen wrapper over her nightgown, and red knitted 
slippers on her feet. Neither Maggie nor Jim notices her. 
She hesitates a moment, looking at them, then goes over to 
a chair near Maggie, draws it to the stove and puts her feet 
on the fender.] 

Jim [gently detaching her arms and holding both her 
hands in his] : Magsie, dear, I wish I could. You don't 
know how I hate to sneak off like this and leave you to 
carry everything. But you see yourself I couldn't stand 
it — not if I was paid to! And I bet you couldn't your- 
self, if you was in my place. 

Maggie: But Jim — 

Jim [warmly] : I tell you, I want to, bad enough. And 
I need to, if it comes to that. I haven't got a nickel. 
But I'd get pinched and sent up before I'd stay in this 
house. I feel just like I'm in jail every minute. 

Maggie: I know, Jim, dear, but couldn't you make 
yourself stay — just till after Christmas? Oh, if you only 
could! 

[A sound on the stair brings Jim to his feet, he makes for 

[77] 



MOTHER-LOVE 

the outer door, but Mother bursts into the room, flings her 
arms about him, and breaks into hysterical sobs.] 

Mother: Oh, my son! My son! Are you going to 
leave me? Are you going to leave your Mother? 

Jim [soothingly]: No, no, Mother, of course not. 
Can't I go out and buy a cigar without — 

Mother [shrieking]: No! No! Don't deceive me, 
Jim. You were going to leave me. You might as well 
kill me now. It would be kinder. 

Jim [impatiently]: Mother, won't you listen to me? 
I tell you I'm only going out to buy a cigar. 

Mother: Maggie, tell me the truth. Is he going to 
leave me? 

[Maggie is silent. Mother looks from her downcast face 
to Jim and falls into a chair, moaning piteously.] 

Mother: My son, my only son! I might have 
known this cup of joy would be dashed from my lips. 
Oh, God, let me die! 

[Lura retreats to the open door of the stairway, watching 
her mother, with fascinated, terror-filled eyes. She makes 
several futile moves toward Maggie, but Mother and Jim are 
between and she does not venture. After a moment Maggie 
sees her, goes over to her and puts her arm around her.] 

Maggie: Go right up to bed now, Lura, dear. 

Lura [shaking her off]: I don't want to. Is brother 
Jim going away? [A muffled shriek from Mother.] 

Jim [under his breath]: Damnation! [Louder.] Mother, 
I do have to go away for a few days, and you 
see why I was afraid to tell you — you cut up so rough. 
It isn't exactly pleasant for me. And there's no need 
of making such a fuss. I'll come back to spend Christ- 
mas with you — 

[Mother rises and with a heart-broken wail again flings 
herself upon him.] 

[78] 



MOTHER-LOVE 

Mother: Oh, my son, take me with you. No matter 
where you are going! I'll live in a cellar with you — or 
anywhere — or tramp the streets. Other people are noth- 
ing to me. I only want you. Think how — all these 
years — [ Her voice trails off and is choked in sobs.] 

Jim [moved in spite of himself] : There, there, Mother, 
don't cry so. You can't go with me till I get a place to 
take you to, of course, but just as soon as I find one, I'll 
send for you. 

Mother [breaking from him and taking a stand against 
the door]: You must trample over your mother's dead 
body, if you leave this house without her! 

Maggie [springing to her in terror and trying to drag 
her from the door]: Oh, Mother, don't say that. Don't 
stand there! 

[Mother pushes her aside. Lura runs to Maggie and 
clings to her speechlessly.] 

Jim: Don't be afraid, Maggie. I won't hurt her. 
[He turns to Mother with an air of decision.] Well, 
Mother, all right. If you've got to go, get your togs to- 
gether. But remember I've warned you. Don't blame 
me for what you get into. 

Mother [kissing him rapturously]: Oh, my darling 
boy! I don't care what I get into. I can endure any- 
thing if I'm only with you. [In lowered voice.] And you 
know I have some money — a little — for us both. 

Jim [flinching from her]: Aw, cut that out. 

Mother [bravely wiping her eyes]: Well, I'll be ready 
in five minutes. 

Jim: All right. [Mother starts toward the stairway, 
but stops, casts a suspicious glance on Jim and Maggie, 
goes back to the door, locks it, and takes the key with a de- 
fiant air.] 

Jim [disgustedly] : Oh, I say, Mother! 

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MOTHER-LOVE 

Mother [with dignity]: My life's happiness is at 
stake, Jim. I cannot afford to risk it. [She goes out.] 

Jim: Well, isn't that the limit? Good-bye, Maggie, 
I'll send you the first money I can lay hands on. Sure, 
I will. Good-bye, Lura. Be a good girl. 

[ He runs up the shade, opens the window, and vaults out 
of it. A shriek is heard from above, and Mother rushing 
down the stairs precipitates herself toward the window. 
Maggie intervenes, and prevents her jumping out of it. 
Lura looks at them in wide-eyed terror and screams shrilly 
as Maggie's words give her the clue to what is happening.] 

Maggie: Mother, you'll kill yourself! 

Mother: Kill myself! Yes, I will. And you shan't 
stop me — you double-faced hypocrite, you! You drove 
him away, I know you did! My only son! [She pushes 
Maggie from her in a fury. Maggie totters against the 
chest of drawers. Lura, shrinking against the wall, begins 
to cry.] 

Maggie: Oh, Lura, dear, don't. Please go upstairs. 
It's so cold here, too. [She closes the window, takes Lura 
in her arms and tries to hush her crying.] 

Mother [spitefully] : Yes, it would be too bad if that 
fifty-year old cry-baby should take cold. But you can 
drive my only son out of the house, the only comfort 
of my last years, and kill me with loneliness and grief — 
[sobbing] — and that's all right. You don't care anything 
about that. Oh, my son, my son! The only creature I 
ever loved has been driven from me. And I am alone. 

Maggie [sharply]'. Why do you say I have driven 
him away? I did everything I could to keep him. 

Mother [sneeringly]: Yes, you did! I know well 
enough what you did. You tried to pull me away from 
the door, so he could go and leave me. And why did he 
want to leave me? I never spoke a word of blame to 

[80] 



MOTHER-LOVE 

him. I was all love and tenderness. But you made him 
feel he wasn't welcome here. I know all about you, 
Miss Maggie. 

Maggie: But I didn't— I didn't at all. 

Mother: You needn't tell me. That's why he went 
away the first time. I saw it all then, but I was power- 
less. All my life long you have separated me from my 
son, my only son. Perhaps God will forgive you, but I 
never shall. Never. [Lura sobs louder.] 

Maggie: Mother, please don't talk so before Lura. 
She'll go upstairs in a minute, but it frightens her so. 

Mother [with shrill hysterical laughter]: Lura! 
There's another attraction for our happy home! An 
idiot as well as a Pharisee! No wonder he didn't care 
to stay. 

Maggie [putting Lura aside and advancing upon 
Mother with a threatening aspect]: Never let me hear 
that word from you again! Never as long as you live! 

Mother [cowering against the wall, but essaying a weak 
defense]: I shall say just what I please, Miss Maggie — 

Maggie [seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her 
slightly to emphasize her words] : You will not. Do you 
hear me? Never as long as you live. 

Mother [in a quavering voice of abject terror]: No — 
no — I won't. Let me go, Maggie. [She tries to twist 
herself out of Maggie's grasp.] 

Maggie [sternly, with a parting shake]: See that you 
don't, then. 

Mother [throwing herself upon Maggie with a burst of 
tears]: Oh, Maggie, don't you turn against me, too! 
I'm a poor, broken old woman, and my only son has 
cast me off. 

Maggie [taking Mother in her arms]: I'll never turn 
against you, Mother, dear. You can do anything to me, 

[81] 



MOTHER-LOVE 

but you mustn't hurt Lura. [With a sudden fierceness, 
holding Mother off by the shoulders and looking her square- 
ly in the eyes.] I'll — I'll kill you, if you do. 

Mother [sobbing wildly] : Oh, I won't, I won't. But 
you love her best and nobody cares about me. 

Maggie [patting her shoulder tenderly] : I love you too, 
dear. But I've got to make Lura happy. I used to 
think that maybe things would be different when Jim 
came home, but she has no one but me to look to now. 

Mother [with muffled sobs] : But I have no one but 
you either. I want you to take care of me. 

Maggie: I will, dear. I'll take care of you both — 
my two children. [She smiles half -whimsically at Mother, 
and keeping one arm about her, holds out the other to Lura, 
who timidly slips into it.] 

Lura [in a quavering voice, clinging to Maggie]: 
Doesn't brother Jim like me, Maggie? 

Maggie: Of course he does, darling. Mother didn't 
understand. And Maggie loves you, hard. 

[Lura snuggles closer and heaves a long, fluttering sigh 
of relief.] 

Lura [almost inaudibly]: I'm not an idiot, am I, 
Maggie? 

Maggie: Indeed you're not. And I'm not a Pharisee 
either. Mother didn't know what she was saying — she 
was so disappointed. Did you, Mother? 

Mother [dramatically] : I was crazed with grief. My 
only son had forsaken me, had trampled under foot the 
love of the mother who had watched and wept for him 
thirty years. No wonder I was — [Her voice trails off 
in sobs. Lura shrinks from her, still holding to Maggie.] 

Maggie: I guess Jim couldn't help it, Mother. He's 
never learned to do hard things. But maybe he will, 
sometime, and then — 



82 



MOTHER-LOVE 

Mother: He will never come back to me. [Thrusting 
her hand into her bosom and bringing out a packet.] Here, 
Maggie, this is the money I had saved for him by the 
self-denial of years. I can never help him with it, now. 
Take it and spend it for yourself and Lura — [She breaks 
into uncontrollable weeping.] 

Maggie [taking the packet and glancing at it with some 
surprise]: Oh, thank you, Mumsie, dear. Why, what 
a lot of bills. I believe there's enough to pay for the 
roof! [Embracing Mother ecstatically.] Just think how 
snug and tight we'll be all next winter! 

Mother [striking a tragic attitude]: The lid of my 
coffin will cover me then. I shall not burden you long. 
Some morning you will find me cold and stiff in my bed — 
[Lura shudders and shrinks from her.] 

Maggie [putting her hand over Mother's mouth] : Hush, 
dear, I can't allow my children to say things like that. 

Mother [after a visible struggle]: All right, [she 
swallows hard] — Mother. I'll try to be a good girl. 

Maggie [kissing her warmly]: That's right, dear. 
Then will you go straight upstairs to bed, now? It's 
after ten. I'll come and tuck you up in a minute. 

Mother [in a dull, hopeless tone] : I might as well. 

Maggie: Good-night, dear. 

Mother: Good-night. [She goes out, closing the stair- 
door behind her.] 

Maggie [pulling a chair close to the stove] : Warm your 
feet a minute, darling, before you run up to bed. [Lura 
sits with her feet on the fender. Maggie moves about the 
room, setting it in order.] 

Lura [in wondering tones]: Is Mother going to play 
being a little girl now? 

Maggie [wearily] : I guess so. 

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MOTHER-LOVE 

Lura [sagely]: Maybe she's tired playing Mother. 
Is she going to be a good little girl or a bad little girl? 

Maggie [with a sigh which she turns into a laugh] : We 
aren't any of us good all the time, are we? The Wicked 
Fairy sometimes lays a spell on us, you know. 

Lura [eagerly] : And somebody must take it off again 
— like little Bright- Eyes. Oh, Magsie! [She jumps up 
from her seat and runs over to hug Maggie, ecstatically.] 

Maggie [putting her arm about Lura]: What is it, 
dearie? 

Lura [excitedly]: I'll be little Bright-Eyes, an' Mother 
can be the Dragon, an' you can be the Good Fairy that 
tells me what to do. An' when it comes summer, I'll 
bring her every kind of flower to smell of, and the smell 
of one of them will take off the spell! 

Maggie [heartily]: Sure enough! That's a game we 
can play all by ourselves, isn't it? Nobody else will 
know. [She kisses Lura with lingering tenderness.] Now 
you're good and warm, aren't you, sweetheart? Jump 
into bed fast, and Maggie will come, right away. 

Lura: All right. [She kisses Maggie and gives her 
two "bear hugs" . Standing by the stair-door, she swings 
it thoughtfully to and fro.] 

Lura: I'm not going to ask God to send brother Jim 
home again. 

Maggie: He won't, dear. Now scamper upstairs. 

[Lura goes upstairs. Maggie locks the window and puts 
coal on the fire. She picks up Lura's picture-book from 
the hassock, clasps it passionately to her breast, and lays 
her cheek against it for a moment before replacing it on the 
table. The tender brooding smile of a mother lights her 
face. She extinguishes the lamp, and, in the darkness, is 
heard wearily ascending the stairs.] 



84 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 



[85] 



CHARACTERS 

Helga, the girl from the Marsh Croft 

Per Martensson, her betrayer 

The Judge 

Gudmund Erlandsson, a young farmer, heir of Narlunda 

Erland Erlandsson, Gudmund's father 

Ingeborg, Gudmund's mother 

Hildur, Gudmund's fiancee 

The Councilman, Hildur's father 

The Councilman's Wife, Hildur's mother 

Karin, Hildur's sister 

Thorwald Larsson, a young poet ) friends of 

Hugo Andersson, a student at Upsala J Gudmund 

Ingrid, a housemaid 

Olga, a barmaid 

A Swiss Pedlar 

A Constable 

Spectators in the Courtroom 

Riders 

Musicians 



86 



THE GIRL FROM THE 
MARSH CROFT 

The Courtroom of a rural district in Sweden. The Judge, 
a middle-aged man, with a cynical expression and an 
irritable manner, sits at a heavy table strewn with papers, 
right front. Deal benches run from front to back of the 
stage. Half a dozen spectators, mostly farmers, occupy the 
benches further from the table. The Judge and the specta- 
tors, in common with all other characters except the pedlar, 
wear the peasant costumes of Varmland. 

Gudmund Erlandsson sits nearest the audience. He is 
dressed smartly in a short hunting jacket, a small gray felt 
hat and top boots into which his trousers are tucked. He 
looks honest and kindly. At first, he, like the other spec- 
tators, glances at Helga somewhat contemptuously; but as 
the case proceeds, he leans forward to look at her with an 
expression of unconcealed admiration. 

On the bench in front, nearest the Judge's table, but sitting 
far from one another, are Per Martensson, a prosperous 
farmer of about forty, with a bold and dashing appearance, 
and Helga, a young servant girl, not more than eighteen 
years of age, with an oval face, delicate features, and pale 
brown hair curling softly about her head. She wears a 
Swedish peasant costume consisting of a skirt of dark blue 
wool reaching to the ankle, and a yellow apron tied with 
leather strings from whose ends dangle little tassels, a 
bodice of red cloth over a white waist, red stockings, low 
shoes and a red cap. Her eyes are swollen with weeping. 
She twists a drenched handkerchief nervously in her hands. 

[87 1 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Judge [in a loud voice]-. Next case. [Fussing with 
papers on the desk, finally fishing out one, adjusting his 
eye glasses, and reading from it in a loud voice.] Helga 
Nilsdotter, plaintiff, against Per Martensson, defendant. 
Are the parties here? [He glances at Helga and Martens- 
son. Martensson nods easily and Helga bows her head 
into her handkerchief in a fresh burst of tears.] 

Judge [impatiently]: Helga Nilsdotter, stand up. 
[Helga rises with an attempt to wipe away her tears. She 
looks steadily down at the Judge's table, twisting her hand- 
kerchief in her hands. The spectators nudge each other 
and smile knowingly.] 

Judge [irritably pounding the table with his fists, as he 
notes these glances]: Order in the court! What is your 
name? 

Helga [in a trembling voice] : Helga Nilsdotter. 

Judge [writing down each answer before he asks 
the next]: Your age? 

Helga: Eighteen last April. 

J udge : Residence ? 

Helga: The Marsh Croft. 

J udge : Occupation ? 

Helga: General servant, — that is, I was. [She breaks 
into silent weeping.] 

Judge: Do you know Per Martensson? 

Helga: Yes, sir, — I worked in his family. 

Judge: When? 

Helga: From January to August last year. 

Judge: What are you bringing suit against him for? 

Helga [with bowed head, in a low, tremulous voice] : He 
is the father of my child and I cannot support it. No 
one wants me in service now, and the child will starve. 

Judge: You want an order from the Court to com- 
pel Per Martensson to support this child? 

[88] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Helga: Yes, sir. 

Judge: You say Per Martensson is the father of the 
child? 

Helga: Yes, sir. 

Judge: Are you quite sure? 

Helga [with surprise] : Yes, sir. [Snickers from the 
spectators.} 

Judge [pounding the desk again]: Order in the Court. 
[with an access of severity in his manner.] You know 
what an oath is? 

Helga: Yes, sir. 

Judge: Will you swear, on this Bible, that Per Mar- 
tensson is the father of your child? 

Helga: Yes, sir. 

Judge [severely] : Do you know that if you swear falsely 
on a Bible, your soul is lost forever? There is no salva- 
tion for the perjurer in this world or the next. 

Helga [shuddering]: Yes, I know. 

Judge: Think well, then, before you swear that Per 
Martensson is the father of your child. 

Helga: It is the truth. 

Judge: Step nearer. Lay your hand on the Bible — 
so — now repeat after me. I swear before God — 

Helga: I swear before God — 

Judge: That Per Martensson — 

Helga: That Per Martensson — 

Judge: Is the father of my child — 

Helga: Is the father of my child. 

Judge [leaning back in his chair and surveying her 
sternly] : So you want me to compel Per Martensson to 
support this child. Why cannot your parents take care 
of it? 

Helga: Oh sir, they are so poor — The Marsh Croft 
gives them scant food for themselves alone. And I am 

[89] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

a burden on them now. We shall all starve together 
unless Per — [Her voice is choked with sobs.] 

Judge [sternly]: That is the misery that sin brings, 
Helga Nilsdotter. You cannot expect decent people to 
employ you in their houses now. 

Helga [weeping]: No, sir. But the child has done no 
wrong. 

Judge: He suffers for the sins of his parents. You 
have applied to Per Martensson for aid? 

Helga: He will not see me. Three times I have been 
to the farm, but the door was closed against me. I 
waited by the road to speak to him, but he cast me off 
and would not listen. Indeed, I would not bring dis- 
grace upon him if I could help it, but I have nowhere 
else to turn. 

Judge: No man can be compelled to support a child 
merely because some woman chooses to say it is his. 
That will do for you, Helga Nilsdotter. Per Martens- 
son, stand up. [Martensson rises.] What is your name? 

Martensson: Per Martensson. 

Judge: Residence? 

Martensson: The old Martensson farmstead. 

J udge : Occupation ? 

Martensson : Farmer. 

Judge: Do you know Helga Nilsdotter? 

Martensson [carelessly]: Yes. She was employed 
for a time as servant in my household. 

Jugde: Are you the father of her child? 

Martensson: I am not. [Helga starts in amaze- 
ment and looks at him. He looks straight at the judge.] 

Judge: Did you ever carry on an intrigue with her? 

Martensson: Never. [Helga stares at him in un- 
disguised astonishment.] 

Judge: Will you swear to these statements? 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Martensson: I will. [The handkerchief Helga has 
been twisting in her hands falls to the floor. An expression 
of doubt and perplexity crosses her face as if she cannot 
believe what she has heard.] 

Judge: Place your hand upon the Bible. So. 
[Helga half rises from her seat and sinks back again.] 
Now repeat after me. I swear before God — 

Martensson [in a low stumbling voice] : I swear be- 
fore God — 

Helga [rising in terror]: Oh stop! [She sweeps 
Martensson* s hand off the Bible and seizing the book, holds 
it close to her breast in defensive attitude. The Judge 
pounds the table furiously.] 

Judge: What are you doing, woman? Put the 
Bible down. 

Helga [bursting into tears]: He shall not take the 
oath. He shall not. 

Judge: What is the matter with you? What busi- 
ness have you with the Bible? 

Helga: He must not take the oath. 

Judge [sharply] : Are you so determined to win your 
suit? 

Helga [in a high, agitated voice]: No. No. I want 
to withdraw the suit. I don't want to force him to 
swear falsely. He mustn't lose his soul. 

Judge: Are you out of your mind? 

Helga [slowly and earnestly looking into the Judge's 
face]: Let me withdraw the suit. He is the father of 
my child. I am still fond of him. I don't want him to 
be lost forever. [The Judge looks at her almost incredu- 
lously, then with a sudden irradiation of his stern face. 
The spectators breathe a quick sigh of relief and satisfac- 
tion. They gaze at Helga with something approaching 
reverence in their expression.] 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Judge [after an instant's silence]'. It shall be as you 
wish, my child. The case shall be stricken from the 
calendar. [ He starts to draw a line through his paper.] 

Martensson [starting forward]'. But I — 

Judge: Well, what is it? Have you anything to say? 

Martensson [hanging his head and speaking almost 
inaudibly] : Well — no. I dare say it is best to let it go 
that way. 

Judge [looking contemptuously at him] : The hearing 
is adjourned. [He rises, walks around the table and offers 
his hand to Helga.] Thank you! [She shakes hands with 
him in some bewilderment, looking wonderingly up into his 
face. Per Martensson slinks out of the door, and the 
spectators follow him, casting glances of respect and admi- 
ration back at Helga, who sinks down again listlessly upon 
the bench. The Judge leaves the room, and after a moment 
she rises to go, but stops halfway to the door overcome with 
another gust of tears.] 

[Gudmund, who, as one of the spectators, has been visibly 
moved by Helga' s action, returns to the room just as she 
abandons herself to her grief, and stands for an instant 
irresolute in the doorway. He comes in a few steps, but 
she does not hear him. He listens to her inarticulate 
bursts of grief and makes as if to go, but finally shuffles 
slightly with his feet so that she hears and springs up, 
choking down her sobs and standing all aquiver in pose 
of flight.] 

Gudmund [in a soothing voice]: Don't be afraid, 
Helga. I want to speak to you. 

Helga: It is not best for any honest young man to 
be seen speaking to me, Gudmund Erlandsson. 

Gudmund [with conscious pride] : It will not hurt me. 
Tell me, what can you do now, Helga? How will you 
live — and your child? 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Helga [choking down a sob] : I do not know. 

Gudmund: I will ask my mother to employ you at 
the farm. Since she was ill she needs some one to be 
feet for her — to run errands for her and to wheel her 
about in her chair. 

Helga [clasping her hands in an ecstasy of gratitude] : 
It is a kind thought, Gudmund, and God will bless you 
for it. But [sadly] Mother Ingeborg will not want me 
in her house. 

Gudmund : Nonsense, Helga. Of course, she will. I 
will tell her what you have done today, and she will see 
that you are not a bad girl. 

Helga : I am not a bad girl. But I did wrong. And 
it will not be forgotten. 

Gudmund: You wait and see. Why you were only 
seventeen! And you've got fifty years more to make it 
right in! 

Helga [sobbing and wringing her hands]: Oh Gud- 
mund, don't. I can't make it right, ever. There is 
only one thing to do now, and I shall do it. 

Gudmund: One thing, Helga? And what is it? 

Helga [in a low voice]: Do not ask me, Gudmund. 
It concerns me only. 

Gudmund: Do you mean — What do you mean, 
Helga? 

Helga: I will not tell you. It is nothing to you, 
nor to anyone. 

Gudmund: It is something to me, and to all of us, 
Helga, after today. You have given us something that 
we may remember when there seems to be no goodness 
in the world. 

Helga [surprised]: I? 

Gudmund: Did you not see how the Judge wished to 
shake your hand? 



93 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Helga: It was kind of him. And you, too, have 
been kind to me. But there is not enough for the four 
of us on the Marsh Croft, and I cannot tell my father 
and mother that Per Martensson will not help us — 
[She breaks off with a sob.] 

Gudmund [moving a step toward her and patting her 
hand soothingly] : Poor little Helga! 

Helga [snatching her hand away, covering her face and 
breaking into a flood of tears] : I must go away where — I 
can never — come back again. Then little Nils can have 
enough to eat. 

Gudmund: Helga! Are you thinking of the Marsh? 
[Helga nods vehemently without uncovering her face.] 

Gudmund [seizing both hands from her face and holding 
them tight in his] : Don't you dare, Helga Nilsdotter! 

Helga [struggling to free her hands] : Let me alone, 
Gudmund. I know very well what is best for all of us. 

Gudmund [shaking her gently] : You are a wicked girl, 
Helga. Do you want to lose your soul? You would not 
let Per Martensson throw his away today, and I will not 
let you, either. 

Helga [still sobbing] : It can't be a sin, Gudmund, to 
go out of the world when there is no place for you in it. 

Gudmund: But there is a place. I will talk with my 
mother and bring you word in the morning. Promise 
that you will wait till I come. 

Helga [after a pause, putting out both her hands to him 
in a gesture of impulsive gratitude]: I will wait, 
Gudmund. 

Gudmund [clasping her hands and looking solicitously 
into her eyes]: You will not be afraid to go home now, 
will you, Helga? 

Helga: No, I shall tell my parents that you will 
speak to Mother Ingeborg for me; and perhaps they will 



94 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

not be so angry, because I am to have no help from Per 
Martensson. [She drops her hands from his and turns 
away, as if to go.} 

Gudmund [taking a step toward her}: It is a long 
walk for you, Helga. You can ride with me as far as the 
Crossroads. 

Helga: Oh no, Gudmund, I thank you with all my 
heart, but I will not ride with you. 

Gudmund [brusquely}'. Nonsense, Helga. Why not? 

Helga: It is not fitting that I should ride with you, 
Gudmund, and you understand this quite well. I will 
not repay your kindness by leading anyone to think less 
of you. 

Gudmund: What do I care what low-minded fools 
think? Come along, Helga. I'll drive my horse up to 
the door. [Starts to go.} 

Helga: Forgive me, Gudmund, but I cannot ride 
with you. Good-bye. [Sits down resolutely and begins 
to loosen her shoes.] 

Gudmund: What are you doing? 

Helga: I shall carry my shoes. They are new and 
it is a long walk. 

Gudmund [with a tender, teasing note in his voice]: 
You are a headstrong girl, Helga. I must tell my mother 
that you are one to take your own way, and perhaps she 
will not want to employ you. 

Helga [sorrowfully, but resolutely, slipping off her 
shoes and stockings] : You must tell her what you will, 
Gudmund, but I will never do you an injury. Good-bye 
to you. 

Gudmund [half annoyed, but indulgent]: Good-bye, 
Helga Headstrong. I shall speak only good of you to 
my mother. But you must be more docile when you 
are under her rule. [ He stands in the door for a moment, 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

smiling protectingly down at her. She smiles up at him 
with complete trustfulness.] 

Helga: I will try, Gudmund. [Exit Gudmund. 

Helga rapidly stuffs her stockings into her shoes, ties 
the shoes together and hangs them about her neck, pins her 
skirt up around the bottom, opens the door a crack and 
peers out to make sure that no one is outside, then goes 
quietly out]. 

CURTAIN. 



[96 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 



ACT I. 

Six weeks later. The living room at Narlunda: a 
spacious room with an immense fireplace occupying nearly 
all the right wall. Above the fireplace hangs a pole which 
passes through the holes of countless loaves of ring-bread, 
big as the wheel of a wheelbarrow, but thin as a wafer, 
Wide windows and a glass door at back, showing a garden 
in full bloom. The ceiling has massive beams and the floor 
is strewn with green twigs. Benches of heavy oak stand 
near the fireplace and against the walls. A heavy oak table 
covered with books and magazines is in the center of the 
room. A loom stands in one corner, and two spinning 
wheels near by. A door at left leads to the kitchen and 
bedrooms. 

Helga is discovered, in Swedish costume as before, her 
yellow apron filled with fresh green twigs which she scatters 
on the newly scrubbed floor. As she works, she hums 
joyously a Swedish folk-song. When she talks, she is full 
of eager, unconscious gestures; her bubbling, childish 
laughter is frequently heard: and she seems altogether trans- 
formed from the despairing creature of the Prologue. She 
has covered all but a small section of the floor at the front 
of the stage, and finishes this as Gudmund enters, bearing a 
basket of cones for the fire. He sets it down by the hearth, 
after laying a few on the logs. Helga, meanwhile, tosses 
the last twigs from her apron, glances critically at a tall 
vase of wild appleblossoms on the table, loosens the branches 
from one another so that they stand out in graceful lines, 
and surveys the result with immense satisfaction. 

[97 1 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Helga [gazing rapturously at the apple-blossoms]: 
Aren't they beautiful, Gudmund? Do you think Hildur 
will notice them? 

Gudmund: No doubt she will. And she will thank 
you, when I tell her that you gathered them for her. 

Helga: They are from the wild trees by the road. 
I could not get many, — the twigs were so gnarly and 
hard to break. Will you lend me your knife, Gudmund? 
I want to cut an armful of them and strew the driveway 
before her. 

Gudmund [handing her the knife from his pocket, with 
an indulgent smile] : But Hildur is not a queen, little one. 

Helga [slipping the knife into the pocket of her apron] : 
She will be queen of Narlunda, — after tomorrow. Then 
we shall dress the house with birch boughs for the bride. 
But we would do that for anyone you married, these are 
for Hildur herself. [As the talk goes on, she deftly puts 
the finishing touches to the room, dusting the furniture, 
setting the books and magazines in order upon the table, 
etc. Gudmund standing by the fire, watches her.] 

Gudmund: So Hildur is fond of apple-blossoms? 

Helga: I don't know. But they are like her. Don't 
you think so, Gudmund? — only too pink. She is whiter, 
— more like the orchard blossoms. Oh, Gudmund! [She 
claps her hands in an ecstasy of appeal.] 

Gudmund: What is it, little one? 

Helga: May I not cut branches from the orchard, — 
armfuls to strew before Hildur? 

Gudmund: Why, little Vandal! If you did that, we 
should have but a short crop of apples in the fall. 

Helga: But Hildur would rather have the blossoms 
now, than the apples next winter! 

Gudmund [doubtfully]: Would she? But what would 
the Councilman say? No doubt he would take back his 



98 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

word, even on the day before the wedding, and forbid 
his daughter to marry the poor farmer, who had no more 
sense than wealth. Since I am not so rich as the Council- 
man, Helga, I must try to be as prudent. 

Helga: But no one is as rich as the Councilman, — 
except, perhaps, the King himself. 

Gudmund [laughing]: Except the King. Very true, 
little Helga. 

Helga: But the King himself has no more beautiful 
home than you have, Gudmund. [Looking about with 
affectionate admiration.] 

Gudmund: You think so, Helga? Are you content 
then, to be here with us? 

Helga: Indeed, I am! Mother Ingeborg and all of 
you have been as kind as angels to me. 

Gudmund: Have you not been homesick for the 
forest? I have heard that one who belongs to the forest 
cannot help yearning for it. 

Helga: Oh yes, in the beginning, I was homesick; 
but not now, any more. At first, — but you mustn't 
speak of this to your mother. 

Gudmund : I will be silent, if you wish me to. 

Helga: I understood, of course, all the time, how well 
it was for me to be here; but there was something that 
took hold of me and wanted to draw me back to the 
forest. I felt as if I were deserting and betraying some- 
one who had a right to me. 

Gudmund: It was, perhaps — [He checks himself.] 

Helga: No, it was not the boy I longed for. My 
mother had made him her own and he had no more need 
of me. It was nothing in particular. I felt as though I 
were a wild bird that had been caged and I thought I 
should die if I were not let out. 



99 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund [smiling]: To think that you had such a 
hard time of it! 

Helga [smiling back at him]: I didn't sleep a single 
night. As soon as I went to bed, the tears began to 
flow, and when I got up of a morning, the pillow was wet 
through. 

Gudmund : You have wept much in your time. But 
you are not homesick now? 

Helga: No, I have been cured. Shall I tell you how? 

Gudmund: Yes. Tell me. 

Helga : When I was the most unhappy, I asked Mother 
Ingeborg to let me go home on a Saturday evening, and 
remain over Sunday. I meant to tell my mother and 
father that I could never, no never, go back to Narlunda. 
But they were so happy because I had found service with 
good and respectable people, that I didn't dare to tell 
them. 

Gudmund [softly]: Poor little Helga! 

Helga: But I didn't need to tell them. For on 
Monday morning as I awoke and lay crying and fretting, 
because I knew I must return to the farm, — suddenly I 
remembered hearing that if one took some ashes from 
the hearth in one's home and strewed them on the fire 
in the strange place, one would be rid of homesickness. 

Gudmund : That was a remedy easy to take. 

Helga: Yes, but it has this effect also. Afterwards 
one can never be content in any other place. So, if one 
were to go away — 

Gudmund: Couldn't one carry ashes along to every 
place one moved to? 

Helga: No. It can't be done more than once. So 
it was a great risk to try anything like that. 

Gudmund [laughing] : I shouldn't have taken such a 
chance. 



100 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Helga: But I did. It was better than having to 
seem an ingrate in your mother's eyes and in yours, when 
you had tried to help me. So I brought a little ashes 
from home, and when no one was in, I scattered them 
over the hearth — [She makes a gesture of scattering them 
over the hearth]. 

Gudmund : And you believe this is what helped you ? 

Helga: You shall judge. I thought no more about 
the ashes all that day. There was much to be done, and 
I went about the house grieving, exactly as before, until 
the fire was lighted on this hearth in the evening. After 
the milking was done, when I entered this room — 

Gudmund [encouragingly]: What then? 

Helga: As I lifted the latch, it flashed across my 
mind that I was going into our own cabin and that 
mother would be sitting by the hearth. This flew past 
like a dream, but when I came in, it seemed really good 
to enter, — it had not been so before. Your mother and 
the rest of you had never appeared so pleasant as you did 
in the firelight. You were no longer strangers to me, 
and I could talk to you about all sorts of things. I was 
so astonished that I could hardly keep from clapping my 
hands and shouting. I wondered if I had been be- 
witched; and then I remembered the ashes. [She claps 
her hands in joyous recollection and looks up at him tri- 
umphantly.] 

Gudmund [teasingly] : This is indeed marvelous. But 
what if sometime you had to leave Narlunda? 

Helga [in a quivering voice, dropping her hands apart] : 
Then I must long to come back again all my life. 

Gudmund [laughing, but warmly]: Well, I shall not 
be the one to drive you away. [He stoops to put more 
cones on the fire. A sound is heard at the door on the left 
and Helga springs to open it. A wheel-chair, in which 

[1011 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

sits Mother Ingeborg, a kindly, strong faced, gray haired 
woman of fifty, is propelled into the room by Erland 
Erlandsson, a man about the same age, partly bald and 
wearing a black skull cap. They both wear the peasant 
costumes of Varmland. Mother Ingeborg's manner is 
authoritative but benevolent, Erland 's quiet and full of 
humorous understanding.] 

Helga [joyously] : Will you look at the room, Mother 
Ingeborg? Is all as you would have it here? [She takes 
the chair from Erland and, as the following talk goes on, 
wheels Mother Ingeborg about the room, until Mother 
Ingeborg smiles and nods approval. Gudmund and his 
father meanwhile confer in low tones near the fireplace.] 

Mother Ingeborg: It is very well, my child. You 
have done all that I could, were my legs strong to bear 
me about. The Councilman's wife can find little amiss, 
I fancy, in our housekeeping. Eh, Erland? 

Erland : There is no better housekeeper in all Sweden 
than Mother Ingeborg. Did not the Councilman's wife 
say so herself, when she first visited our home? 

Mother Ingeborg: But that may have been a com- 
pliment. Today we shall know what she really thinks. 
If she hints that this and that should be altered, to make 
Narlunda a fit place for her daughter — 

Erland : I want nothing altered here. 

Mother Ingeborg: Nor I. But when Hildur, out 
of love for our Gudmund, leaves the wealth of Alvakra 
for our humble farmhouse, we surely can do whatever 
she or her mother may wish. It is but little after all. — 
Is the table spread, Helga? 

Helga: Yes, Mother Ingeborg. 

Mother Ingeborg: And fresh linen laid in all the 
bedrooms? 



102 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Helga: Yes, Mother Ingeborg. Would you like to 
see all for yourself before they come? 

Mother Ingeborg: I trust you as I would trust my- 
self. There is no more then to do anywhere in the house? 

Helga: Only to cut the wild apple branches, which 
I would strew in the driveway. Shall I bring them in, 
now? 

Mother Ingeborg: Go now, and be ready to show 
our guests in when they arrive. 

[During the last two speeches, Helga has moved Mother 
Ingeborg' s chair nearer the fireplace. Now she adjusts one 
of the blinds so that the light does not shine directly in her 
face and smoothes the kerchief over one shoulder. Exit 
Helga. Mother Ingeborg looks after her fondly.] 

Mother Ingeborg: It was a good thought, Gud- 
mund, to bring Helga here. I could hardly do without 
her now. 

Gudmund : She tries to please you, — one can see that. 

Mother Ingeborg: And she is able to please me. 
Our house is kept as it used to be when I could be busy 
in it from morning to night. And I have had no care in 
all the preparations for the wedding. Everything is in 
readiness as if the fairies' hands had been at work here. 

Erland : Helga is a good girl. It is well that she is 
with us, who will protect her, rather than with some Per 
Martensson. 

[Helga is seen without, opening the door wide for the 
Councilman, Mother Anna, and their daughters, Hildur 
and Karin. The Councilman is a pompous, aldermanic 
personage; his wife a stately, somewhat supercilious, but 
determinedly gracious Great Lady; Hildur a tall, beautiful 
girl of twenty, with a graceful assurance of manner that 
pleases rather than wins; Karin, two or three years younger 
than Hildur, has a round, boyish-looking face, with a 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

lively, good-humored expression. All wear the costumes of 
Varmland.] 

Erland [advancing] : Welcome to Narlunda, friends. 

Mother Ingeborg: Thanks for the last time, 
honored guests. 

The Councilman: I thank you, Erland Erlandsson, 
and you, Mother Ingeborg. [They shake hands with 
Erland and Mother Ingeborg and Gudmund. Helga 
closes the door, and stands near the Councilman's wife, 
ready to assist her in removing her cloak. Gudmund goes 
at once to Hildur and they talk apart, he holding her hands 
in his.] 

Mother Anna: How is it with you, Mother Inge- 
borg? No worse than usual, I hope! 

Mother Ingeborg: No worse than usual, I thank 
you, Mother Anna. Are you also well, — and Hildur? — 
and Karin? 

Mother Anna: Very well, I thank you. [Hildur 
and Karin curtsy.] A thousand pardons Mother 
Ingeborg, for entering your respected house, with our 
outer wraps. But we could not resist the approach 
through your beautiful garden. 

Mother Ingeborg: You are fully pardoned, Mother 
Anna. Helga will take your cloaks. [As Helga offers to 
remove her cloak, the Councilman's Wife surveys her coldly 
through a lorgnette.] 

Mother Anna [dropping her lorgnette but without 
lowering her voice] : Is that the Marsh Croft girl? [Hildur 
looks up keenly at Helga and, with a slight shrug of the 
shoulders, turns back to Gudmund.] 

Mother Ingeborg [glancing apprehensively at Helga]: 
Yes. Leave the cloaks in the west bedroom, Helga. 

[As Helga offers to take Hildur' s cloak from her, the 
Councilman's wife intervenes, takes the cloak from her 

[104] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

daughter and hands it to Helga without looking at her. 
She would do the same for Karin, but Karin makes her 
cloak into a roll and tosses it to Helga with a boyish, 
"Catch, Helga." Helga flashes a grateful smile at her as 
she catches the cloak. The Councilman's wife pushes de- 
terminedly between Karin and Helga , speaking to Karin 
in a low tone, with evident displeasure. As Mother Inge- 
borg addresses the Councilman' s wife, Karin pirouettes 
over to Erland and engages him in animated talk.] 

Mother Ingeborg: Once more let me thank you, 
Mother Anna, for your courtesy in permitting us to have 
the wedding here. Otherwise my infirmity would have 
prevented me from seeing my only son married. And 
that would have been hard to bear, I assure you. 

Mother Anna: Do not mention it, my dear Mother 
Ingeborg. The Councilman and I were happy to oblige 
you in so small a matter. Were we not, my dear? 

The Councilman: Delighted, I assure you. 

Karin: We get the best of that bargain, I think, — 
All the solemn, tiresome part here, then a jolly canter to 
Alvakra for the dancing and fun. Indeed it suits us 
very well, Mother Ingeborg. 

Mother Anna: My dear Karin! 

Mother Ingeborg [smiling indulgently at her]: Then 
I am glad for you as well as for myself. Shall we go into 
the garden now, my friends? Erland cannot wait until 
after dinner to show you his young plum trees. 

The Councilman [after glancing at his wife]: We 
shall be charmed. 

Mother Anna: Delighted. 

Karin [mischievously]: I'll stay with Hildur. [She 
casts a glance at Hildur and pretends to stagger against the 
wall, transfixed by the cold stare of disapproval which she 
gets in return.] 

[105] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Mother Ingeborg: You can wheel me, Erland. 
The young people will join us when they wish. [Exeuntall 
but Gudmund and Hildur. Gudmund holds the door open 
and closes it after Karin, giving her a playful shake, as, 
shielding her eyes with her arm, she affects to escape through 
it. Then he returns to take Hildur in his arms.] 

Gudmund: Hildur! Dearest! [He kisses her 
passionately again and again. She yields herself to him for 
a moment and then pushes him away with a coquettish 
gesture.] 

Hildur: That will do, Gudmund. You must not 
smother me, you know. 

Gudmund [thickly] : I could kiss you to death. You 
were made to be kissed, Hildur, — and by me. [He tries 
to kiss her again.] 

Hildur [smiling, but keeping him at a distance]: No 
doubt. But I do not care to be kissed to death even by 
you. We shall be married many years, Gudmund, if 
God will. Do not let us take a pace we can't keep up. 

Gudmund: But, — but Hildur! — I can't be as sensible 
as you. 

Hildur [calmly]: Then I will be sensible for both. 
A wife must be so, often. And we have many things to 
settle today. 

Gudmund: Let the old folks settle them. While you 
are here, I shall think of nothing but you. 

Hildur: Mother will speak to Mother Ingeborg 
about that girl. Of course I cannot come to Narlunda 
while she is here. 

Gudmund [thunderstruck]: What girl? 

Hildur [with a contemptuous smile]: The girl from 
the Marsh Croft, naturally. You did not suppose I 
meant old Ingrid? 

Gudmund: You cannot come here if Helga — ? 

1 106] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Hildur: You would hardly expect me to, would you? 

Gudmund: Why, of course I should. Mother could 
not get on without her. 

Hildur: She will not need her when I am here. And 
everyone knows it is not right to keep a girl of such 
character in a respectable house. 

Gudmund [earnestly] : But she is not a bad girl. She 
was very young when she first went out to service, and 
it was not strange that things went badly when she came 
across such a dastardly brute as Per Martensson. 

Hildur: That may be. But when a girl has once 
gone wrong, one never knows. 

Gudmund: But if we should push her out, she might 
meet with misfortune again, through no fault of her own. 

Hildur: Misfortune of that kind doesn't come with- 
out fault. 

Gudmund: How hard you are, Hildur. Surely you 
don't want to deprive Helga of her chance to live a good 
life? 

Hildur [with a shrug of the shoulders] : If that girl is 
to remain at Narlunda, I will never come here. I cannot 
tolerate a person of that kind in my house. 

Gudmund : You don't know what you are doing. No 
one understands so well as Helga how to care for mother. 
We have all been happier since she came. And I have 
given her my word that she should stay. 

Hildur: I shall not compel you to send her away. 

Gudmund: But you make it a condition of your 
marrying me. Hildur, do you want a husband who has 
broken his word? 

Hildur [coldly]: I want nothing at all. You shall 
please yourself in this matter. 

Gudmund [hotly]: Please myself! Yes, to be sure. 
I can please myself by breaking my word to Helga, 

[107] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

pushing her out of the one refuge she has found, and 
marrying you. Or I can please myself by keeping my 
word to her and losing you. I shall be very happy, no 
doubt, either way! [He flings himself away from her, and 
sees through the window his mother's wheelchair approach- 
ing, pushed by Erland. He goes to the door and opens it.} 

Mother Ingeborg [cheerfully]: Well, my children, 
are you not ready to go to the garden now? I have 
asked to be excused, Hildur, from making the rounds of 
the farm. I tire so easily. But I will wait you here. 
Send Helga to me, will you not, Erland? 

Erland : Certainly, my dear. 

Gudmund: I will call Helga, mother. Will you ex- 
cuse me, Hildur? Father will take you to your mother, 
I must speak with Mother Ingeborg before I join you. 
[Exit Gudmund.] 

Erland [offering his arm to Hildur with courtly 
courtesy and chattering volubly to cover the awkwardness of 
the moment]: Will you come with me, gracious Hildur, 
and intercede with your worthy parents for my kitchen 
garden? I left them arguing about the potato patch. 
Mother Anna was for making it larger, by rooting up 
all my lettuce, radishes and chives; while the Councilman 
would plant fewer potatoes and more cucumbers. You 
will tell them, will you not, that when I want a baked 
potato I cannot be put off with a raw cucumber? And 
that when a salad is to be dressed, it cannot be done 
with rutabaga? 

Hildur [smiling pleasantly at him and taking his 
arm] : But you should tell them yourself, Erland Erlands- 
son. You can put it much more eloquently than I. 

Erland : I will tell them the story of my father. He 
ordered a dish of blackberries once at a hotel in Stock- 
holm, but the waiter said that they had no blackberries, 

Sl08 ] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

"No blackberries," said my father, much annoyed, 
"Well, then, bring me a couple of boiled eggs!" [He 
laughs expectantly. Hildur looks puzzled.] 

Hildur: How very singular! And boiled eggs in the 
city are so seldom fresh. 

Erland [opening the door for her]: Very true, my 
dear Hildur. The old gentleman should have known 
better. On the whole, I think I won't tell your honored 
parents about him. Probably they would not approve 
of him, either. [Exeunt, as Gudmund enters.] 

Gudmund: I have asked Helga to come to you, 
Mother. Has the Councilman's wife told you to send 
her away? 

Mother Ingeborg: We shall have trouble about 
Helga, I fear, Gudmund. I will ask her not to appear 
again while they are here. Ingrid can serve the dinner. 

Gudmund [grimly] : It is as well the poor girl should 
not be insulted again. What did Mother Anna say 
to you? 

Mother Ingeborg: She thinks it wrong for us to 
have Helga in service here; and impossible for her to re- 
main after Hildur comes. 

Gudmund: Hildur said the same to me. They are 
well agreed. But I do not mean to send Helga away. 

Mother Ingeborg: But Gudmund, — if you should 
lose Hildur? 

Gudmund: Then I must lose her. You could not 
get on without Helga, now. 

Mother Ingeborg: Oh, my son, I would get on 
somehow, if only you were married to Hildur. It has 
been my dream for so many years! 

Gudmund: But what about my promise? 

Mother Ingeborg: Did you promise Helga that she 
should stay here? 



109 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund: This morning, just before they came I 
said to her, — "I shall never be the one to drive you 
away." 

Mother Ingeborg: Oh, Gudmund, why did you say 
that? But she will not hold you to it, I am sure she 
won't. 

Gudmund: I shall hold myself to it. It is not best, 
mother, that I should give way to Hildur in this. She 
will think to rule me in all things and there will be un- 
happiness between us continually. 

Mother Ingeborg: But you love her, Gudmund, do 
you not? 

Gudmund: Twenty minutes ago, I loved her to dis- 
traction; and no doubt I shall again, when this has blown 
over. But just now I should like to shake her! 

Mother Ingeborg [with a sigh}: No doubt men 
often feel so. But you must be patient with her, Gud- 
mund. Girls like her are brought up to think that way 
about girls like Helga. I was, too. But, perhaps, when 
you are married — . 

[Gudmund shrugs his shoulders doubtfully. Enter 
Helga. She is grave and has evidently been weeping.] 

Mother Ingeborg [kindly]: Helga, my child, you 
have tired yourself with all these preparations. Now 
will you do me still another kindness? Take Ingrid's 
place in the kitchen, so that all may be done well there. 
She is apt to be careless at the last. Let her serve 
dinner in your place, and after dinner, you may have a 
holiday for the afternoon. 

Helga: I understand, Mother Ingeborg. And after 
dinner, I will go to my home. It is best that I should 
leave you, now. 

Mother Ingeborg: Leave us, Helga? 

Helga: Yes, Mother Ingeborg. You gave me shel- 



110 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

ter when there was no one to open a door to me, and I 
will never leave you while you want me to stay. But it 
will be easier for all of you now, if I am no longer here. 

Gudmund: No, Helga. We do not wish you to go. 
You have made a place for yourself here, and you shall 
not be driven from it. 

Helga: I thank you, Gudmund. But I will not re- 
pay kindness with injury. Mother Ingeborg knows that 
it is best for me to go. 

Mother Ingeborg: You are more generous than we, 
Helga. We do not want you to go, — any of us, — but, 
perhaps — for a time — there will be some way later, I am 
sure, for you to return to us. 

Helga: Good bye, Mother Ingeborg. Good bye, 
Gudmund. [She shakes hands with Mother Ingeborg and 
offers her hand to Gudmund, who refuses to shake it.} 

Gudmund [hotly]: I won't have it so, I tell you. 
Mother, why don't you tell her she must stay? 

Helga [quietly] : I will not stay, Gudmund, not even 
if Mother Ingeborg should bid me to. Good bye. [She 
turns, as if to go.] 

Mother Ingeborg: Do not go now, my child. You 
must not walk all that long way. The master will drive 
you home this afternoon, after our guests have gone. 
And he will pay you your wages for the month. 

Helga: It is kind of you, but I am well able to walk. 

Mother Ingeborg: Let him drive you, Helga. It 
is so little we can do — he will carry with him flax 
enough for six tablecloths and six dozen napkins, which 
you must weave for me. 

Helga: I thank you, Mother Ingeborg. The work 
will make us all happy. 

Mother Ingeborg: Besides he will explain to your 
parents that we are parting with you now only because 

[1111 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

after Hildur comes, we shall not need so much help. 
And that when the weaving is finished, I will find you 
another good situation, where you will be safe and happy 
as you have been with us. 

Helga: I am very grateful to you, Mother Ingeborg, 
and my parents will be proud that I have pleased you. 
[Exit Helga, as Erland and the guests are seen approaching 
through the garden. They enter with a confused babble of 
thanks and compliments.] 

Mother Anna: I am enchanted, Mother Ingeborg. 
Your dairy — [She throws up her hands in an ecstacy of 
admiration.] 

The Councilman : A fine herd of Holsteins you have, 
Gudmund. 

Gudmund [as if aroused from a dream]: Hoi — Oh, 
yes. Very fine indeed. 

Erland [hastily]: The Councilman greatly admires 
our prize bull. 

The Councilman: A magnificent creature. I have 
no finer on my farm. 

Mother Ingeborg: Did you drink a gourd of new 
milk, Hildur, as you did before? 

Hildur: We all did. It was delicious — so cool and 
sweet-smelling. 

Mother Anna: Quite a farmer's wife, already, is she 
not, Mother Ingeborg? [They all laugh and Hildur pre- 
tends to a pretty confusion. Enter Thorwald and Hugo, 
two young men of about Gudmund' s age. Thorwald is 
slender and flaxen-haired, with large, lustrous, abstracted 
eyes. He carries a fiddle under his arm. Hugo is shorter 
and sturdier of build, with a shock of brown hair. He 
wears spectacles and looks like the typical University 
student.] 

Mother Ingeborg: Here are our other guests! 

[112 1 



THE GIRT. FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

[Gudmund springs to the door and flings it open, greeting 
them both with an obvious appearance of relief on their 
arrival. The two young men bow low over the hand of 
Mother Ingeborg and each of the other ladies, during the 
following speeches. Erland and the Councilman nod to 
them in friendly fashion.] 

Gudmund [heartily]: Come in, old chaps, come in. 

Erland: Welcome, my friends. 

Mother Ingeborg: Thanks for the last time. 

Hugo: I thank you, Erland Erlandsson, and you, 
Mother Ingeborg. 

[Thorwald only bows in acknowledgment of these greet- 
ings. After bending over Hildur' s hand, he forgets alto- 
gether to salute Karin and retires to a corner whence he 
can stare unobserved at Hildur, while playing imaginary 
tunes in the air on the strings of his fiddle.] 

Mother Anna [patronizingly to Hugo as he bends over 
her hand]: So here is our University student! What 
honors have you brought home to us, in Varmland, 
Hugo Andersson? 

Hugo [somewhat embarrassed]: Nothing as yet, 
Mother Anna, I am sorry to say. But I have not spent 
my time in idleness. 

Mother Anna: I am glad to hear that, indeed. 
The young men of these days have so little sense of 
responsibility. And what are you doing for yourself, 
Thorwald Larsson? 

Hildur [reproachfully] : Thorwald is a poet, mother. 

We do not expect poets to work for money like other men. 

Thorwald [gazing at Hildur gratefully]: I thank you, 

Hildur Ericsdotter. Everyone expects it but you, I think. 

Gudmund: But your father has let you off, now, 
Thorwald, hasn't he? — since you nearly killed yourself 
in the forest. 



113 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Thorwald: Yes. He'd rather my head were a 
little cracked than broken outright. 

Hildur: How was it you were nearly killed, Thor- 
wald Larsson? 

Thorwald [with a laugh] : I tried my best to go into 
my father's business, as he wanted me to. But I could 
not tell one kind of lumber from another. And in the 
forest I would sometimes take a book of poems from my 
pocket and read it as I walked. 

Gudmund [laughing uproariously] : So one day he ran 
into a tree and broke his head open and lay unconscious 
till a searching party found him. Poor old Thorwald! 
[All laugh.] 

Mother Ingeborg: Then your father has given up 
all hopes of making a timber merchant of you? 

Thorwald: Yes. And what is more, he has given 
up a good income to me while he lives and has willed the 
business to me, under trustees, so I can go on forever 
writing poetry and playing the fiddle. What do you 
think of that for a man who hates poetry and music? 

The Councilman: Very extraordinary, upon my word! 

Thorwald [with feeling, speaking as if to Hildur 
alone]: If I could make myself into the kind of a son 
he really wants by chopping myself into small pieces 
and putting them together some other way I'd do it 
in a minute. But I've got to disappoint him always. 

Hildur [gravely] : But someone must always be dis- 
appointed. And no doubt it is better to disappoint 
another than oneself. 

Thorwald [deeply impressed]: How true that is! 
Not to disappoint oneself — I shall remember that. 

Karin [irrepressibly]: I'm so glad you've brought 
your fiddle, Thorwald. Now we can dance the crown 
off the bride's head. 

[114] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Mother Anna: By no means, Karin — What are 
you thinking of? 

The Councilman [shaking his head wisely]-. That 
would be unlucky. It should never be done until after 
the wedding. 

Karin [exuberantly]: Fiddlesticks! Bother! She 
isn't going to wear her wedding dress, is she? That's 
the only thing that's really unlucky. I've got to prac- 
tice catching her crown. 

Mother Ingeborg: Little madcap! Do you want 
to wear the bride's crown so soon? 

Karin: Indeed I do — I never get my own way at 
home. Please, Hildur! Strike up a dance, Thorwald. 
[She pulls Hugo and Erland, who stand near her, to the 
other side of the room and, standing between them, and 
holding each by the hand, begins to skip up and down like 
an impatient child.] 

Karin: Come, Hildur. Hurry up, Thorwald. [Thor- 
wald looks at Hildur for permission to play, but she does 
not give it.] 

Hildur [coldly]: I have no crown. 

Karin [dropping the hands of Hugo and Erland and 
looking about the room]: Oh, I forgot that, — here, this 
will do. [She runs hastily to the vase of wild apple 
branches, and detaches two or three small sprays, pulling 
the rest impatiently out and dropping them on the table. 
She twists the small sprays with a few deft movements into 
a circle and puts it on Hildur 1 s head.] 

Karin [stepping back and viewing her handiwork] : 
Behold the bride! I believe it's more becoming than the 
golden one will be. [Hildur takes the crown from her 
head and tosses it contemptuously away. Karin dexter- 
ously catches it.] 

Karin [with bubbling laughter]: Aha! I caught it 



115 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

that time. Little Karin may be your next bride after 
all! 

Hugo [adventurously] : After all — what? Who is 
more likely? [Karin drops him a curtsy.] 

Karin: We must have more room. May we push 
back the table, Mother Ingeborg? 

Mother Ingeborg: Surely my child, — whatever 
you wish. [Gudmund and Erland push back the table. 
While they are doing so, Karin turns to Hugo.] 

Karin: Have you got a clean pocket handkerchief, 
Hugo? [Hugo produces it.] You can blindfold her, 
then. [Laughingly Hugo advances towards Hildur, but 
Thorwald, as if impelled by a force he cannot resist, inter- 
poses between them.] 

Thorwald [breathlessly]: Oh, let Gudmund do it! 
[A mazed, Hugo, Karin and Hildur stare at him for an 
instant, then look at Gudmund, who stands apart from the 
group, moodily abstracted, hearing nothing that has been 
said, and even unconscious of the attention suddenly focused 
upon him.] 

Karin [teasingly]: Listen to the poet! Such fine 
feelings for our Gudmund, who never even thought of 
them himself! [Hugo, Erland and Karin laugh loudly. 
Thorwald shrinks back in confusion. Hildur frowns and 
tosses her head slightly. Gudmund wakes up from his 
abstraction at the sound of his name.] 

Gudmund [with a forced laugh]-. What's the joke? 

Karin: Will your Highness, the Prince Consort, 
graciously allow your gentleman in waiting, Hugo, to 
bind the eyes of your fair Princess for the dance? 

Gudmund [carelessly]: Go ahead, old man. 

Hildur [turning with a swiftly gracious movement to 
Thorwald and bending her head to him] : Thorwald, will 
you, please? [Thorwald, in an agony of embarrassment, 

[116 1 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

draws out his handkerchief and binds it about Hildur's 
eyes. Karin sets the apple blossom crown again upon 
Hildur's head, seizes upon her mother and forms with her, 
Erland, Gudmund and Hugo a ring about , Hildur. The 
Councilman remains seated by Mother Ingeborg.] 

Karin: Mother, you must chaperon me. But 
don't you dare catch the crown! You're excused, Father, 
to talk with Mother Ingeborg. I know you'd lots rather. 

The Councilman [gratefully] : Thank you, my dear, 
I would. 

Mother Anna: But my dear Karin — 

Karin [dragging her along] : Oh, be a sport, Mother! 
Your dancing days aren't quite over! 

Mother Anna [bridling] : Not at all, my dear. Why 
should they be? 

Karin: Come along then. Strike up, Thorwald. 

[Thorwald glances at Hildur, who smiles slightly in 
assent. He plays the Varmland polska, and all dance 
around Hildur, three or four times, when she takes the 
crown from her head and flings it before her. Gudmund 
catches it, as if mechanically. There is a burst of laughter, 
the music stops suddenly, and Karin flies at him in mock 
fury. She snatches the crown from him and beats him 
with it.] 

Karin: Beast! Numbskull! You'd take my chance 
from me, would you? A sweet, pretty bride, isn't he? 
[She puts the crown on his head and they all shout at his 
foolish appearance.] 

Gudmund [humbly, removing the crown and handing it 
to her with a low bow] : I'm very sorry, Karin. 

Karin [severely]: Don't you know that this is a 
ladies' game? You men are in the ring to fill up space — 
that's all. I'll do the catching. 

i 117 1 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Erland [apologetically] : Gudmund was asleep, I be- 
lieve. 

Gudmund: I believe I was. Try it again, Karin. 
I promise not to catch. 

Karin: We'll try it until I catch, — I warn you. 

Hildur [pettishly] : That's all very well for you ; but 
I'd like to dance myself — and get this blindfold off my 
eyes. [She pulls impatiently at it. Karin springs to her 
in alarmed entreaty, straightens the blindfold, and places 
the crown upon her head.] 

Karin: Oh, Hildur dear, just till I catch once! Oh, 
please. 

Hildur [reluctantly]: Well, catch it quick, then. 

Karin [hopefully]'. I'll wave my handkerchief toward 
you, and, when you smell heliotrope, you throw the 
crown. [All laugh.] 

Hildur [stiffly]: I shall play fair, if I play at all. 
[Music strikes up and they all circle about Hildur again. 
Karin waves her handkerchief violently as she comes in 
front of Hildur, Hildur flings the crown and Karin catches 
it. The music stops. Laughter and applause from the 
dancers.] 

Karin [rapturously] : I'm getting the knack. Just 
watch me pull it in tomorrow. [The Councilman's Wife 
sinks breathlessly into a chair. Erland stands beside her 
and fans her. Hildur starts to pull off her blindfold and 
Thorwald springs to loosen it for her. They consult to- 
gether in low tones during the following speeches.] 

Mother Ingeborg [to Karin]: Well done, my child. 
But tomorrow do not try to catch the crown. Your 
parents will not wish to lose a second daughter so soon. 

Karin [confidentially]: The fact is, Mother Inge- 
borg, I'm going to lock my hands tight behind me, if it 

[118] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

comes my way tomorrow. But today doesn't count. 
And everybody was so glum, I had to do something. 

Mother Ingeborg [laughing softly and patting Karin's 
hand] : We are all your debtors, little Karin. 

[Thorwald drawing a few sharp notes from his fiddle by 

way of attracting attention, strikes up the well known music 

for the dance called u Reaping Oats". Hildur beckons to 

Karin, who springs to her side, dragging the Councilman's 

wife with her.] 

Karin [joyously]: Oh, we're going to reap the oats! 
Come, boys! [Erland, Gudmund and Hugo range them- 
selves opposite the women.] 

Gudmund : Hugo will lead us. 

Karin: Hildur for us. [The two lines dance toward 
one another, interweave and separate, waving their arms 
with the motion of a sower, singing as they move. Each 
verse of the women is sung first by Hildur, then repeated 
by the three women in unison; each verse of the men, first 
by Hugo, then by the three men in unison.] 

Women: Grow, grain, long as our flowing locks. 

Men: Sun warm the seed, rain swell it to bursting. 

Women: Leap from the ground, light as we leap in 
the dance. 

Sway in the wind, free as our bodies, giving themselves 
to the music. 

Men: Gleam in the life-giving sun, darken in life- 
giving showers. 

Give to us as freely as we give the seed to the earth. 

[The music changes and the dance imitates motions of 
cutting the grain with a long scythe and binding it into 
sheaves.] 

Men: Deep stand we in waves of the yellow grain. 

Women: Swing we the long bright blades that shine 
in the sun. 



119] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Men: Hosts fall before us as proudly we advance. 

Women: Tenderly we lift the drooping grain and 
bind it. 

[Again a change in the music, which becomes martial 
and triumphant. The dancers seem to beat out the grain 
with flails, then join hands and circle round and round in 
a dizzying whirl of exultation.] 

Women: Yield us the yellow grain, strength for our 
children. 

Men: Hold not a kernel back, for we have given all 
our strength to you. 

Men and Women together: Rich is our harvest, earth 
hath been bountiful. Full are our granaries, great our 
hearts with gladness. [Music stops and there is a patter 
of applause from Mother Ingeborg and the Councilman.} 

Mother Ingeborg [beaming with happiness]: Thank 
you, my children. It was a kind thought to bring to me 
the games I cannot see tomorrow. 

The Councilman: We shall have all the old dances 
tomorrow, Mother Ingeborg. I insisted upon it. To be 
sure, the youngsters can't dance them as we did, — Nor 
sing them, either. But — 

[There is a chorus of disgusted groans from the young 
people, in the midst of which Ingrid appears at the door.} 

Karin: All right, Father. Show us how, then. Do 
the weaving dance, — you and mother. 

Ingrid: Dinner is served. 

Karin: Oh bother. Well, after dinner then. Don't 
eat too much, Father, so you can't sing. 

Mother Ingeborg: Eric Sigurdsson, will you wheel 
me to the table? [The Councilman bows and takes his 
place behind her chair.] Erland, give Mother Anna your 
arm. You young people may follow as you choose. 

1120 1 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

[Gudmund takes Hildur* s arm and detains her a moment as 
the others, laughing and talking, go out.] 

Gudmund : Just a minute, Hildur. I must speak to you. 

Hildur [with tolerant kindness]: What is it, Gud- 
mund? 

Gudmund: You have got your way about Helga. 
She is going this afternoon. But it is against my will. 
I begged her to stay, but she would not, because she did 
not wish me to lose you. 

Hildur [quite unmoved]: Well? 

Gudmund [passionately] : But I have lost you. We 
do not feel the same about things. Do you think we can 
be happy together? 

Hildur [surprised and a little piqued] : What do you 
mean, Gudmund? 

Gudmund: Do you think we can? [With sudden 
resolution.] Perhaps, — perhaps it would be better if you 
did not give yourself to me tomorrow. 

Hildur [startled]: I don't know what you mean. 

Gudmund [not looking at her] : We are so far apart — 

Hildur [sharply]: What are you thinking of? 
Would you shame me tomorrow before all the country- 
side? 

Gudmund [earnestly]: How could I shame you, 
Hildur? I am not your equal in this marriage. There 
would be few to blame you if you should take back 
your promise. 

Hildur [proudly]: I am not one to take back 
promises. — But if you — [Suddenly softening.] — Has 
anything changed between us, Gudmund? 

Gudmund [miserably]: It seems to me that every- 
thing is changed. 

Hildur [with growing tenderness] : I have not changed. 
You said you had lost me. But this is not true. 

[121] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund [devouring her with his eyes}'. Isn't it true? 

Hildur: No, indeed, There is nothing to separate 
us, now that Helga has had the good sense to go away. 

Gudmund [with a harsh laugh]: Good sense! [More 
quietly.] Yes, that was it, no doubt. 

Hildur : Assuredly. She saw herself that it was not 
right for her to be here. And we can do much for her 
in her own home, — afterwards. Do not think me hard- 
hearted, Gudmund, or unkind. 

Gudmund [looking at her dreamily] : Surely you can- 
not be so, with that face. [ Unconsciously he moves 
towards her.] Oh, Hildur — [She puts her hands against 
his breast and holds him at a little distance.] 

Hildur [playfully]: How is it, then, Gudmund? 
Shall I take back my promise to you? Or do you still 
want me to come to you tomorrow, — that you may — do 
with me — as you will — [She holds him with full gaze for 
an instant, then, on the last words drops her eyes atfd yields 
herself into his arms. Gudmund catches her hotly to his 
breast and kisses her hungrily.] 

Gudmund [thickly]: Hildur! Do you love me after 
all? Do you want to belong to me? 

Hildur [gently disengaging herself from his arms] : Of 
course I do, silly boy. — Why else should I — ? But what 
will they think of us? [She glances toward the dining 
room.] Dinner will be waiting. 

Gudmund [kissing her rapturously]: Who wants 
dinner? 

Hildur [pushing him from her with a playful but de- 
cisive movement.]: That is enough now, Gudmund. 
They'll be sending someone for us. Come. 

[They go out, arms entwined about each other. Gudmund 
stoops to kiss her again in the doorway as the curtain falls.] 



I 122 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 



ACT II. 

Scene 1. 

Near midnight of the same day. The village tavern. A 
low room with heavy oak beams and scanty, rough furnish- 
ings. A rude bar runs along most of the back wall facing 
the audience. Kegs of beer and a few bottles of wine stand 
behind the bar. In the back wall left is the outer door. 
Door in left wall leads to other rooms of the tavern. A high 
Swiss clock points to ten minutes before twelve. Two or 
three heavy deal tables with chairs at them stand about the 
room. At the one furthest right and close to the front of the 
stage, sit Gudmund, Thorwald and Hugo, beer mugs and 
cards before them. One candle burns on this table. Olga 
stands behind the bar. She is of the large, blonde, impassive 
Swedish type, with slow-moving, wide blue eyes and a full, 
well moulded figure. The men drink incessantly during 
the scene. 

Gudmund: Fill the mugs, Olga, and we'll have one 
more game. Your deal, Hugo. 

[ Hugo shuffles the cards unsteadily. Olga draws a great 
flagon of beer and moves in stately fashion toward the table, 
setting the flagon in the center after she has filled the mugs.} 

Hugo: All I shay is, it's too pointed — hie — not in- 
vitin' him to th' weddin'. Makesh talk — hie — 

Thorwald: Talk! I should think it had! 

Gudmund: That's what I want. Talk's the only 
thing Martensson minds. He'd do any dirty thing in 
a corner; but people's whispering about it and pointing 
the finger at him is what he can't stand. 

1123] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Thorwald: You've made him the most unpopular 
fellow in Varmland, Gudmund. 

Hugo: He mi' do you a mischief, ole chap. He's an 
ugly brute w'en you corner him. 

Gudmund : Let him, then. If he'd give me a chance, 
I'd stamp on him like a spider. When I think of the way 
he treated Helga — 

Hugo [sentimentally] : Yesh, poor lil Helga — 

Thorwald: Did Hildur and her mother object to 
leaving him out? 

Gudmund: No doubt they thought I was carrying 
things a bit too far; but they agreed. I said I wouldn't 
be there, if he was. 

Hugo: Ha! ha! ha! ha! That shettled it, I should 
think. Haha. 

Thorwald: Hildur agreed with you, I am sure, Gud- 
mund, and admired you. She is one who must admire 
where she loves — I don't know whether I love you, or 
not — what is love between men? — but I too admire you. 
— And there's something else — trust, I think. That's 
it — I trust you, Gudmund. 

Hugo [snivelling]: So do I — I trusht you, Gudmund. 
Who says I don't trusht you? We all trusht you. 
Hildur trushts you. Lil' Shelma trushts you. Her 
muzzer trushts — 

Gudmund: Oh don't mention it, ole chap. We'll 
take your word for it. Let's start something else. 

Thorwald [dreamily] : At times like this — 

Gudmund: When you're about half-fuddled, do you 
mean? 

Thorwald: I'm not fuddled — I'm clarified. Some- 
thing — the stimulus of drink or of happy companion- 
ship — has sharpened and cleared my vision, till I seem 
to catch now and again faint, cloud-hung glimpses of — 

[124 1 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Hugo: Wha'sh he talkin' 'bout, Gu'mun'? 

Gudmund: Glimpses of what? 

Thorwald [dreamily]: Of what — what the love of 
man for man really is. 

Gudmund: What is it, then? 

Thorwald: It comes in flashes. I can't see it 
clearly. But I know that it is something fairer than the 
love of man for woman. It is of the spirit, not of the 
flesh, and so it will endure. 

Gudmund: Oh bosh! [Drinks a long draught.] 

Hugo: Ha! ha! the shpirit, he shays — the shpirit in 
thish beer — thash what he meansh. [Pounds on the table 
with his mug and laughs loudly.] 

Gudmund: Shut up, Hugo. Go on, Thorwald. 

Thorwald: I shall love many women, I suppose — 
many, because it is never a woman herself that I love 
but the spirit of beauty and of power that she wakens in 
me. I love the greater self that I become in her presence. 

Gudmund [wonderingly]: Izh that it? Then — 

Thorwald: But does the passion to possess her en- 
large me? No. The possessive instinct is small, dwarf- 
ing. I shrink to a lesser man when I try to seize upon 
something, appropriate it to myself. I expand only as 
I rejoice in its limitless beauty, absorb myself in its in- 
finite calm and goodness. — 

Hugo [drunkenly, pounding the table]: Hear! Hear! 
Good ole Thorwald. 

[While Thorwald is speaking the outer door opens and 
the Swiss pedlar shuffles in. He is dressed in European 
costume, a nondescript and dirty combination of brown 
trousers, gray coat and black waistcoat, with a visored, 
shapeless cap on his head, a huge pack on his shoulders.] 

Pedlar [at the door]: Goot efening, all. [No one 
answers, and with no sign of expecting this courtesy, he 

[125] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

sets his pack in the corner behind the door, and cap in 
hand, bowing incessantly, advances to the bar.] 

Pedlar: A mug of stout, if you blease, my tear. 
[Olga pours him the stout.] 

Gudmund: Go on, Thorwald. Thish izh our — hie — 
party. Don* min' the — hie — greasy Outlander — hie — 

Thorwald [peevishly] : The scarecrow has frightened 
away all my darting, wheeling thoughts. 

Hugo [belligerently]: Who zat, Olga? Sen' 'im away. 
I don' want 'im here. 

Gudmund: More beer, Olga, — hie — [She fills the 
mugs and the flagon.] 

Thorwald: See that you wash the mug well, Olga, 
after that fellow has drunk from it. 

Hugo: Give him — hie — the shpittoon. [He kicks it 
toward her and slides off his chair, recovering himself with 
some difficulty.] 

Olga [with a contemptuous glance at the pedlar] : One 
must serve them all. 

Gudmund [hilariously]: But not all alike, Olga, my 
girl. We've notished that — hie — 

[Sings] To sh wee ten Carl's glash with a kish 
She thought it wash nussin' amissh — 
But when Larsh craved the shame 
She called a new game — hie — 
And poured his good beer 
Down hish ear — hie — Ha! ha! ha! 

[Thorwald and Hugo join in his laughter.] 

Hugo [pulling Olga down to him] : A kish for lil Hugo, 
pleash. [He kisses her and she cuffs his ears perfunctorily] 

Olga: Let me alone. You'd best go home now. 
Your legs won't carry you if you drink any more. 

Gudmund: We'll shee him home. My legsh are 
shteady. Shee — [ He executes a few shuffling dance steps 

[126] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

and sits down suddenly on the floor.] Ha! ha! Thorwald, 
ole boy, mus' take us bosh home, Hugo'n me. 

Hugo: Less shtay here, aw'night. W'y not? On 
th' floor. [He looks vacantly at the floor and settles down 
in his chair in a drunken stupor.] 

Gudmund [rising from the floor and reseating himself 
clumsily in his chair] : Olga! Give — hie — dthat dam' 
Outlander — hie — a flagonful on my 'count an' then — 
hie — turn — 'im out. We want — hie — th' plasch to our- 
shelves — hie — . [Olga goes behind bar.] 

Pedlar [bowing very low to Gudmund]: T'ank you a 
t'ousant time, your honor. [To Olga.] Gif me the 
flagon. I vill serf myself at that dable. [He indicates 
the table next Gudmund? s\ 

Gudmund belligerently] : Not that table — hie — 
Keep your distansh, Ishaac. I can shmell you — hie — 
from here — hie. 

[Per Martensson enters in time to hear Gudmund' s last 
two speeches. He pauses at the door long enough to ex- 
change a glance of secret understanding with Olga, then 
moves toward the bar.] 

Pedlar: Very well, Meester, I vill dake dhis dable, 
den. [Moving to one in the corner nearest the door and 
sitting at it.] It is all vun to me. 

[As Per Martensson passes near Gudmund' s table, he 
nods curtly to the three friends. Gudmund and Thorwald 
stare at him with hostile expressions, not acknowledging his 
salutation. Hugo, however, opens his eyes, gazes at him 
stupidly for an instant and then bursts into exuberant 
drunken greetings, half rising from his chair.] 

Hugo: Well, if it ishn't Per Martensshon! Good ole 
boy! Come an' have a — hie — dhrink — hie — with ush. 
We're dhrinking the ole year out — hie — yeh know. — 

Thorwald: Shut up, Hugo. 

[127] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund [pulling him down into his chair] : Si' down. 
You're drunk. 

Hugo [with outraged virtue}: Coursh I'm drunk — hie 
— I'm dhrinking th' ole year — hie — out. 

Gudmund: Keep still. 

Hugo: Keep still, yerself — hie — I'm tellin' Per, Gud- 
mun's gettin' married t'morrah, Per, — poor ole boy. — 
Sho we're drinkin' th' ole — I mean th' new year in. 
Thass it. Si' down, Per. Get chair for ole Per, Thor- 
wal'. All frien's here. [V/hile Hugo talks, Martensson 
stands by the table, surveying the group with a malicious 
smile. He lights a cigarette and puffs nonchalantly at it, 
waiting to see what Gudmund will do.} 

Gudmund: Si' down yourself. [He pushes Hugo into 
his chair with no gentle hand.} That fellow shall never 
drink at my table. I'd ask Ishaac here first. — hie — 
Come, Ishaac, — hie — bring your bottle. You may not 
be honest, but you're decent — hie — for all I know. 
Come along. [ He rises unsteadily and pulls the pedlar by 
the arm to the larger table, drags up a chair and pushes him 
into it. The pedlar holds fast to his flagon. Martensson, 
with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, moves to the 
bar and stands, leaning over it, blowing smoke from his 
cigarette into Olga's neck and bosom. She pretends to re- 
sent this but is evidently flattered and pleased.] 

Pedlar [bowing low to the three friends] : T'anks, your 
honors. I vill, mit mooch playsure, make vun in your 
liddle pardy. [Hugo's head gradually sinks down on the 
table and he seems to have fallen asleep. Gudmund pours 
drinks all around and drains his mug.] 

Martensson: A glass of cordial, please — [Olga 
pours and he drinks, leaning over the bar. Setting down 
his glass, he fondles Olga's arm, slipping his hand up her 
sleeve, and saying something to her in a low tone, which 

[ 128 1 






THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

makes her look at Gudmund, apparently fearful lest he has 
heard. Martensson jerks his head contemptuously in Gud- 
mund' s direction and laughs harshly.] 

Thorwald [disgustedly]'. But Gudmund, why should 
you ask him? [Jerking his thumb toward the pedlar.] 

Gudmund [boisterously, with evident intention to be 
heard by Martensson.]: His shtench ish better — hie — 
than the othersh — hie. 

Thorwald [seeing that Martensson has heard this]: 
Keep shtill, Gudmun', can't you? You talk too much. 
[Gudmund gathers up the cards and begins to shuffle them, 
not looking at Martensson.] 

Gudmund [loudly]: More beer, Olga. [Olga starts to 
fetch it, but Martensson holds her by the arm, looking up 
into her face with a cool, calculating, provocative smile.] 

Thorwald: Less take Hugo home. 

Gudmund [calls] : Give us shome beer, I shay — quick. 
We're goin' home. Thish comp'ny here — hie — ish not 
to our tashte. 

Martensson [again detaining Olga and speaking in a 
smooth, cutting voice]: Another glass of cordial, Olga. 
[Olga mechanically pours it out and offers it to him. Still 
holding Olga's arm, he raises the glass as if drinking her 
health, then turns and surveys Gudmund with insolent 
satisfaction.] 

Martensson: When I am quite done with Olga, you 
can have her. It won't be the first time you've taken 
my leavings. 

Gudmund [stupidly]: Wha'sh that? 

Thorwald [sharply, after a pause]: Look oud! Are 
you shpeakin' of — of Gudmund's bride? 

Martensson [smoothly, with a mocking smile] : By no 
means. Do not excite yourself unnecessarily, Thorwald 
Larsson. 



129 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund [vacantly]: Hildur? Leavingsh? What! 
[ He leaps from his chair, steadying himself with his hands 
on the table. His voice clears, and the drunken stupor 
seems to slip off him like a garment.] Is it Helga you 
mean? You — you dirty liar! [He hurls himself at 
Martensson in one agile spring.] 

Thorwald [jumping in between them]: Stop! Stop! 
Hugo — Isaac, pull him off! 

Hugo [waking, partly]: Wha — wha's the madder? 
[ He lurches toward the group and apparently without much 
consciousness of what he is doing, helps the pedlar pull 
Gudmund from behind.] 

Pedlar: In Gott's name, sir — [Gudmund has Mar- 
tensson down, but Thorwald and the pedlar pull him off 
and draw him away to a safe distance. During the next 
two speeches Olga goes to Martensson, helps him to rise 
and dusts off his clothing.] 

Gudmund [trying to pull loose from Thorwald and the 
pedlar]: Let me alone, can't you? 

Thorwald: Don't be a fool. You can't get married, 
if you kill him — 

Pedlar : Or if he should kill you, young sir — See — 
he has a knife! [Martensson has pulled a clasp knife from 
his pocket, opened it, and, as Gudmund speaks, lunges 
toward him, knife in hand.] 

Gudmund: Killing's too good for such a swine! [He 
makes for Martensson again, but is stopped by Thorwald 
and the pedlar, while Olga catches Martensson' s arm and 
steps between the two men.] 

Olga: You must go outside, gentlemen, if you're for 
breaking the peace. The master is a constable now, and 
he will have a quiet house. 

Thorwald [to Martensson, holding Gudmund back]: 

[130] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Get out, quick. And you'd best hold your tongue, after 
this. 

Gudmund [advancing upon Martensson menacingly]: 
Say it was a dirty lie, you cur, or I'll finish you now. 
[Martensson hesitates.] 

Thorwald [warningly, still holding Gudmund]: Say 
it, and get out. He means business. 

Hugo: Yesh, he meansh bushinesh. 

Martensson [blackly]: So do I — [Gudmund makes 
a spring at him and catches him by the throat. His knife 
falls to the floor.] 

Thorwald : Quick, Hugo. [ Hugo and Thorwald pull 
Gudmund off until he turns savagely upon them. They 
hold him firmly while the pedlar picks up the knife.] 

Thorwald [to Martensson]: Have you had enough? 
Say what he wants or he'll murder you. 

Gudmund: Say you lied, you dirty scoundrel. 

Martensson [sullenly, after a pause] : If he denies it, 
of course I accept [sneeringly] the word of a gentleman. 
[Gudmund starts as if to lay hands on him again, but 
Thorwald and Hugo restrain him.] 

Thorwald: That's enough from him. Let him go, 
Gudmund. 

[The pedlar returns his knife to Martensson with a low 
bow and Martensson slinks toward the door.] 

Gudmund [thickly]: But our account isn't settled 
yet — remember that. 

Martensson [in the doorway] : No. It is not settled yet. 

[EXIT Martensson. Gudmund reseats himself at the 
table and the others follow his example.] 

Olga: It is time to close, gentlemen. [She indicates 
the clock.] 

Gudmund: After one more drink, Olga. I must wash 
the taste of that carrion out of my mouth. Faugh! 

[1311 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

[He spits and drinks the remainder of his mug, holding it 
out for more.] 

Thorwald: You've had enough, Gudmund, and so 
have we. — 

Gudmund [obstinately]'. One more, old chap. Then 
we'll go home. My head is clear as sunrise now. 

Olga [bringing another flagon of beer, fills mugs and sets 
flagon on table. She gathers up all the candles except that 
on Gudmund' s table and blows them out.] I'll leave you 
one candle. Good night, gentlemen. 

All in Chorus: Goo' night, Olga. 

[EXIT Olga.] 

Pedlar [rising as door closes behind her]: Gen'lemen, 
I gif you Olga — the mos' peautiful mait oudsite of 
Swisserlant. [He raises his mug, and Gudmund and 
Thorwald raising their mugs drink.] 

Gudmund \ [drinking]: Olga! [The outside door opens 

Thorwald \ softly and Martensson slips in, unob- 

Hugo ) served by anyone on the stage. He drops 

on his hands and knees and crawls to the 
nearest table, concealing himself beneath 
it]. 

Gudmund [aggressively]: See here, Isaac, I've seen 
your Swiss girls — they're not so much. 

Pedlar [raising his hands to heaven]: Gott im 
Himmel! The Swiss maitens are the mos' peautiful in 
all the worldt. This is by all men known — 

Thorwald \ : Ha! ha! ha! ha! [Hugo slides down in his 

Gudmund j chair again and lays his head on the table.] 

Pedlar [excitedly]: As far as Swisserlant is the mos' 
peautiful of lants, so are her maitens the mos' peautiful 
of maitens. I gif you Swisserlant, — mit her mountains 
so vite, mit her fir trees so plack, mit — [his voice has 
risen to a drunken, oratorical, sing-song.] 

[132 1 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Thorwald: Oh, shut up, Ishaac. Go back to 
Shwitzerland, if you want to — hie — Don't let ush 
keep you. 

[Thorwald and Gudmund laugh boisterously, winking at 
each other.] 

Thorwald [shaking Hugo by the shoulder] : Wake up, 
Hugo. We're going home. [Hugo does not stir.] 

Pedlar [knowingly]: I can vake the shentleman — 
So — [He dashes the contents of his mug into Hugo's face. 
Hugo starts and splutters, opening his eyes wonderingly .] 

Gudmund [springing to his feet] : You stinking Out- 
lander! Here, Thorwald, put him out! [Gudmund seizes 
one of the pedlar s arms, Thorwald a leg, throwing him 
down. They both shake Hugo, and pull him from his 
chair.] 

Pedlar [struggling] : But, shentlemen, vait a minute. 

Thorwald: Take his other leg, Hugo. [Hugo 
stupidly obeys. ] 

Gudmund: Now, heave him out. 

[As they move toward the door in a lurching, swaying 
mass, the pedlar struggling to free himself, the three friends 
hardly able to keep their feet, Martensson slips noiselessly 
out from under the table. When the group is half way to 
the door, he seizes upon and extinguishes the one candle. 
There are startled exclamations from Gudmund and Thor- 
wald, a rush across the floor, the sound of a body precipi- 
tating itself upon the four men, a scufflling thud as the mass 
of intertwined men fall, "Mein Gott" in the pedlar's voice, 
breaking into a hoarse scream which is suddenly checked, 
a few faint, choking groans, then the sound of someone 
scrambling to his feet, the scrape of the outer door opening 
and running footsteps outside. Meanwhile — ] 

Gudmund [in a stupid, dazed voice]: Is — is anybody 
hurt? 



133 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Thorwald: What's up? Where's the candle? 

Gudmund: Hugo, where are you? Hugo! — 

Thorwald: Here, I've got a match. [Strikes it, 
showing a huddle of two dark figures on the floor. Gud- 
mund strikes another match, finds a candle and lights it, as 
the door in the left wall is thrown violently open and the 
Constable walks in, lantern in hand.] 

Constable [Gruffly, swinging his lantern in all di- 
rections]: What's this? What's this? Who's disturbing 
the peace in my house? 

Gudmund: Bring your light here. I'm afraid some- 
body's hurt. 

Constable [bringing light]: Hurt? If there's mis- 
chief done, some of you shall smart for it. Who's here? 
[peering into his face] Gudmund Erlandsson, as I'm a 
sinner! And Thorwald Larsson! And — 

Thorwald [pulling Hugo out from under the pedlar] : 
Wake up, old man. [Shakes him gently.] 

Constable: Hugo Anderson, too! Young gentle- 
men, I'm the guardian of the law, and if there's been mis- 
chief done here — 

Gudmund [kneeling by Hugo, who is beginning to open 
his eyes]: You're all right, aren't you, old boy? 

Hugo [stupidly]: Aw' ri'. 'Course, I'm aw' ri.' 
[They assist him to rise and he stands staring round-eyed 
at the pedlar, who still lies on the floor.] 

Constable: And who's this? [Bending over the 
pedlar.] 

Gudmund: The pedlar. Is he hurt? 

Constable [setting down his lantern and putting his 

ear to the man's heart] : He's dead. 

Gudmund ) ^ ... 
_ > : Dead? 

Thorwald ) 

[134] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Constable: Look at this! A knife in him. Blade 
broken off — He's done for. 

Hugo: He's dead? 

Gudmund: A knife? 

Thorwald: Why, why — how could — ? 

Constable [sternly, withdrawing from the dazed group 
about the pedlar]: That is what we must find out. 
[Raising his hand authoritatively.] Gentlemen, you are 
under arrest. 

CURTAIN 



[ 135 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 



ACT II. 

Scene 2. 

Same as Act I. — the living room at Narlunda, as in Act 
/., but trimmed with garlands of young birch leaves. Early 
the next morning. Mother Ingeborg in her wheel-chair is 
discovered sitting by the fireplace, and Erland reading a 
newspaper by the table, which is spread for breakfast. 

Erland [throwing down his newspaper}: Well, my 
dear, I want my breakfast. 

Mother Ingeborg: Go and see if Gudmund is not 
ready. I can't bear to sit down without Gudmund. 

Erland [looking hungrily at the table}: I can. But 
he'd better sleep as long as he will. He must have come 
in very late last night. 

Mother Ingeborg: I didn't hear him at all. 

Erland: Nor I. Sometime after midnight, I heard 
wheels on the road and looked out, but it was that fellow 
Martensson. Then I went sound asleep till morning. 

Mother Ingeborg: I wish he would come. It is 
our last meal with him before — 

Erland: But I expect to have several with him — 
after. 

Mother Ingeborg: It will not be the same when he 
is married, Erland. You know that very well. Now he 
is here with us just as he has been for twenty- two years. 
Tomorrow there will be Hildur. 

Erland [densely}: But you want Hildur to be here, 
don't you? Was it not your idea in the first place, — 
this marriage? 



136 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Mother Ingeborg: Of course I want her here. She 
is just the wife for Gudmund. I have always said so. 
But I never would have urged him to marry her, — for all 
her money, — if he hadn't been in love with her. 

Erland: Well, he is in love with her. So why are 
you faint-hearted now? — when your victorious army is 
just marching into the city? 

Mother Ingeborg: Nonsense, Erland. It's not my 
army. And I'm not faint-hearted, exactly. Only it is 
a great change for her. And suppose she shouldn't like 
being a farmer's wife, after all? 

Erland [cheerfully]: Well then, I suppose she won't 
like it. But no doubt she's fond of Gudmund, and' 
they'll manage to worry through somehow, as others 
have before them. 

Mother Ingeborg: Have we worried through, Er- 
land? Is that what you'd call it? 

Erland: Well, my dear, there have been some — 
some adjustments. I've made most of them, but no 
doubt you've made a few yourself! 

Mother Ingeborg: A few! — Well, if he's as happy 
as we've been, — Go and knock at the door, Erland. 
Tell him to dress quickly. 

[Gudmund is seen approaching through the garden with 
the Constable.] 

Erland [rising and seeing Gudmund] : Why, there he 
is. [Mother Ingeborg looks toward the garden.] 

Mother Ingeborg: Has he been out already? Who 
is it with him? 

Erland: The Constable. [Enter Gudmund with the 
Constable.] 

Constable: Good morning, friends 

Mother Ingeborg: Good morning, Lars Jansson. 
Gudmund, where have you been? What has happened? 

[137] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund [going over and kissing her]: Don't be 
frightened, mother. I'm arrested, but — 

Mother Ingeborg [with a stifled shriek] : Arrested? 

Gudmund [putting his hand on her shoulder soothingly] : 
Yes, but it's a mistake. Only on this particular morn- 
ing, you see, it's awkward. 

Erland [stepping forward and facing Gudmund] : Tell 
us, Gudmund, what have you done? 

Gudmund: You see, I don't know. That's the diffi- 
culty. 

Erland: You don't know? 

Constable: The young gentlemen were very drunk. 

Gudmund: We'd been drinking all the evening — 
Thorwald, Hugo and I — at the Blue Hen, you know. 
And a pedlar came in — one of those Swiss fellows — and 
maybe we got too rough with him, I don't know. Any- 
how, he's dead, with the blade of somebody's pocket- 
knife in his skull. [Erland utters a stifled exclamation. 
Mother Ingeborg looks at Gudmund with incredulous horror 
in her eyes.] 

Mother Ingeborg: Oh, Gudmund, but it was not 
you. It could not be. You never hurt a grasshopper 
in all your life! 

Constable [shaking his head sagely] : Many a murder 
has been done without intention. 

Erland: Is that all the comfort you have for us, 
Lars Jansson? 

Constable: It is best to look first on the dark side 
of things, Erland Erlandsson. Because then, if all 
things turn out well, you have a pleasant surprise. If 
not — you are prepared for the worst. [He wags his 
head knowingly and looks around the circle for admira- 
tion; but Gudmund is kneeling beside his mother with his 
arms around her body, which is shaking with silent sobs. 

[138] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Erland, gazing at them, hardly hears what the Constable is 
saying.] 

Gudmund [in a choking voice]: Don't, Mother dear. 
We must think what can be done. 

Mother Ingeborg: How can anyone think you did 
it? 

Gudmund: I wouldn't believe it was done at all, if 
I hadn't seen the knife in him. I couldn't have done it. 
Why, I wouldn't know how. 

Constable: We must detain all the young gentle- 
men, until they can clear themselves. Very sorry. Es- 
pecially today. 

Gudmund: It's all a delirium. How can we ever 
know? 

Erland: You did not do it, my son. We may be 
sure of that. But to prove it — [He breaks off with a 
despairing gesture.] 

Constable [judicially]: The knife blade is the only 
clue, so far. 

Erland [impatiently]: Well? 

Gudmund: That doesn't seem to help much either. 
Hugo's knife has a broken blade, but it does not fit the 
one in the pedlar's skull. Thorwald's knife has no 
broken blade. And my knife — is missing. [Erland 
groans involuntarily and drops his head.] 

Constable: Don't give up hope, Erland Erlandsson. 
I have seen men saved who were nearer the gallows than 
he. [Gudmund winces at the word and Mother Ingeborg 
raises her bowed head proudly.] 

Mother Ingeborg: Do not say such things, Lars 
Jansson. Gudmund is innocent and no harm can come 
to him. 

Erland: But what did you do with your knife? 
You always carry it. 

[139 1 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund: Yes, in this pocket. But it is not there. 

Erland: Can't you remember what you did with it? 

Gudmund: No. Of course it looks as if I had got 
rid of it after sticking the Outlander. But I was too 
drunk to go out of the room, I'm sure. 

Constable: It is nowhere on my premises, — I have 
made thorough search, since daylight. 

Mother Ingeborg: But the wedding! Hildur! 
What shall we do about — 

Erland: They may have started already. I'll go 
and meet them. 

Gudmund: Why should you do that? Do you want 
to stop the wedding? 

Erland [amazed]: Why — can the wedding go on, 
now? [Looks at Constable.] 

Constable: If you will sign this bond for your son, 
[producing a legal document from his pocket] he can re- 
main at liberty till six o'clock this evening. He seems 
to think it important. 

Erland: Would you marry Hildur before — 

Gudmund [squaring his shoulders]: I am innocent. 
Why should I not marry Hildur? When you have signed 
this bond, the Constable will leave me and come for me 
at Alvakra at six o'clock tonight. Hildur need not 
know till then. 

Mother Ingeborg: You would not tell her till after 
the wedding? 

Gudmund: I would not. Why should I shame her 
before all the countryside? If I had killed the man, it 
would be different; but I am innocent and this will be 
proved. 

Erland: Yes. You are innocent; but until you are 
proved so — However, you can decide this when I have 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

signed the bond. Let me have it, if you please. [Turns 
to the Constable and takes the bond from him.] 

Constable: Sign here, if you please, Erland Erlands- 
son. 

Erland: Very well. [Sits at the table and reads the 
bond.] 

Constable : We must have two witnesses — not mem- 
bers of the family. I will be one and one of the servants 
will do for the other. 

Gudmund: Here is Helga, I'd rather ask her. [Helga 
is seen approaching through the garden. Gudmund opens 
the door to her.] Good morning, Helga. What brings 
you here so early? 

Helga: Good morning, Gudmund. I have come to 
wish you happiness on your wedding day. Good morn- 
ing, Mother Ingeborg and Father Erland. 

Mother Ingeborg \ ~ , . „ , 

Erland f : Good morning ' Helga ' 

Helga: I had to go to market with the peat, so I 
came to wish Gudmund happiness. [She smiles frankly 
at him. Gudmund chokes and turns away.] 

Mother Ingeborg: Thank you, my child. He will 
need your good wishes today. 

Helga: Why, what is the matter? Is something 
wrong, Gudmund? 

Gudmund: It is better now, Helga, since you have 
come. Something hard in me broke when you wished 
me happiness — Why are you so kind? You ought 
rather to be angry with me for making it impossible that 
you should remain here. 

Helga: Why no, Gudmund. Surely you were not 
to blame. But tell me what has happened. Why are 
you not dressed? 

Gudmund: You shall hear, Helga. But first, will 



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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

you be a witness to this bond that my father signs for 
me? 

Helga: Certainly I will. 

Constable: As soon as Erland Erlandsson has 
signed, you must write your name. [Erland signs and 
motions Helga to take his chair at the table. Helga sits. 
The Constable, points to a line on the paper]: Here. 
[Helga signs her name, the Constable signs his, puts the 
bond in his pocket and moves toward the door. Mother 
Ingeborg sits bowed in her chair, her face hidden in her 
hands, weeping silently. Helga kneels beside her chair 
and puts both arms around her.} Good morning to you. 
At Alvakra at six tonight. 

Gudmund: I will be ready. Good morning. [Exit 
Constable.] Father, I have changed my mind. [Mother 
Ingeborg and Helga look up. Helga rises and stands with 
clasped hands, looking steadily at Gudmund.} I must tell 
Hildur, before the wedding. It would be unjust to drag 
her into my misfortune. I must have been mad to 
think of it. 

Erland: Good. And I may as well tell you now, 
my son, that I should have told the Councilman, if you 
had not. The Alvakra folk are jealous of their honor, 
and I could not have stood silently by while Hildur 
married a man under accusation of murder. 

Helga [clasping her hands together in dismay]: 
Murder? 

Gudmund: I have not killed anyone, Helga. 

Mother Ingeborg: That he has not. 

Gudmund: But — is it too late to see Hildur before 
she leaves Alvakra? 

Mother Ingeborg: They must already have started. 

Erland: It will soon be over, Gudmund. I believe 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

that the Councilman will understand what it costs you 
to do the right thing and they will all be kind. 

Gudmund: It does not matter. 

Erland: I have heard something of this sort before. 

Mother Ingeborg: Not like this, surely. 

Erland : Yes — There was a bridegroom once who 
happened to shoot a comrade to death during a hunt. 
It was not discovered that he was the one who had fired 
the fatal shot; but he went to the bride and said, "This 
marriage cannot take place. I do not wish to drag you 
into the misery that awaits me." 

Helga: This is what Gudmund will say. 

Erland: And the bride took him by the hand and 
led him into the drawing room where all the guests were 
assembled for the ceremony. There she related in a 
clear voice what the bridegroom had just said to her. 
"I have told of this," she said, "that all may know you 
have practised no deceit upon me. Now I want to be 
married to you at once. You are what you are, even 
though you have met with misfortune; and whatever 
awaits you, I want to share it equally with you." 

Helga [flashing at Gudmund a radiant smile of friendly 
confidence] : That is just what Hildur will do! 

Gudmund [shrugging his shoulders incredulously]: It 
will not end so for us. 

Erland: Who knows? [The wedding party ap- 
proaches, Hildur wearing her bridal gown, veil and crown; 
the Councilman, the Councilman's wife, and Karin, in 
resplendent costumes, closely following. Gudmund opens 
the door for them. Helga slips quietly over to the fireplace 
and stands there unobserved by the newcomers.] 

Gudmund: Good morning, Hildur. I bid you wel- 
come all. 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Hildur: Good morning, Gudmund. Why, you are 
not dressed! 

Erland: Welcome, honored guests. 

Mother Ingeborg: Good morning, my friends. 

The Councilman ) : Good morning, good 

The Councilman's Wife (morning all. 

Karin [with a flourish}: Way for the bride! She 
does me credit, doesn't she? [She looks around the circle 
for admiration.} 

The Councilman's Wife: But how is this? Gud- 
mund not dressed yet? 

Karin: Shame upon him! If I were you, Hildur, 
I'd take one of the others in his place. 

The Councilman: Is anything wrong? 

Erland: My son has something to tell you. 

Gudmund [as though he were repeating a lesson} : I was 
at the Blue Hen last night, drinking out my last night 
as a bachelor with Thorwald Larsson and Hugo Anders- 
son. And a man was killed — 

The Councilman [sharply}: What? Who killed him? 

Gudmund: No one knows. We were all too drunk. 
But there is a broken knife blade in his skull that will 
tell. And my knife is missing. [Helga, who has been 
listening attentively, starts and makes as if to rush toward 
the group, then checks herself, clasps her hands together 
and looks with joyous expectancy toward Hildur.} 

Karin: But, Gudmund! That's simply absurd! 

[The Councilman and his wife glare at Gudmund with 
furious anger. Gudmund looks steadily at Hildur, who 
stands motionless with her eyes on the ground. As if un- 
consciously she pulls out one of the large pins which holds 
her crown in place and lifts her hand as if to remove it.} 

Gudmund: So I must go to prison, until the case is 
judged. [Seeing Hildur's action, he stops speaking; she 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

looks up at him, and in confusion puts the pin back in 
place.] 

The Councilman's Wife: Upon my word! This is 
what comes of such a connection! 

The Councilman: A wretched business, indeed. 
But it is well that we have not been dragged into it. 

Karin [almost sobbing]: Don't let them talk so, 
Hildur. 

Hildur [looking at her with cold steadiness]: One can 
easily see that you are not concerned in this, Karin. 

Erland: It is not proved that Gudmund was the 
slayer; but I can well understand that you would wish 
the wedding postponed, until he has been cleared of the 
charge. 

The Councilman: It is not worth while to talk of 
postponement. It is better to decide now that all is 
over between him and Hildur. 

Karin: No, Father! 

The Councilman's Wife: Certainly! That is the only 
thing to do now. But what a dreadful disgrace. Oh, 
my poor child! Come, let us go at once. 

Gudmund [going over to Hildur and extending his 
hand]: Won't you say farewell to me, Hildur? 

Hildur [staring coldly at him] : Was it with that hand 
you guided the knife? 

Gudmund [turning to the Councilman] : You are quite 
right. It is useless to talk of a wedding. [To Erland.] 
Now I will go back to the prison and give myself up. 
[Puts on his hat and exit by the garden.] 

The Councilman's Wife: Come, Hildur, let us go. 
Good morning, Anna Olafsdotter, and Erland Erlands- 
son. [They all bow ceremoniously, the Councilman opens 
the garden door and they start to go out, when Helga moves 
impetuously toward Hildur.] 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Helga [breathlessly]: May I speak with you, Hildur 
Ericsdotter? It is a matter of great importance. 

The Councilman's Wife: Do not keep us waiting, 
Hildur. This girl can have nothing to say to you. 

Helga [clasping her hands in entreaty] : Oh, do let me 
speak with you, alone, only for a moment. You will not 
be sorry. 

Hildur [surveying her coldly] : Very well. I will join 
you at the carriage, Mother. [The Councilman and his 
wife go out slowly, pausing several times to look back and 
shake their heads together. Karin follows them with droop- 
ing aspect, as if ashamed.] 

Mother Ingeborg: Wheel me to my room, Erland. 
[Exeunt, while Helga waits, looking anxiously at Hildur. 
Before the door is fully closed, she begins to speak, going 
close to Hildur and looking earnestly in her face.] 

Helga: Before I speak, I must know one thing — do 
you love Gudmund? 

Hildur [wincing slightly] : Why else do you suppose I 
ever wished to marry him? 

Helga: I mean, do you still love him? 

Hildur [slowly]: I think, perhaps, I have never 
loved him so much as today. 

Helga [clapping her hands in childish joy]: Oh then, 
run quickly, dear Hildur. He cannot have gone far. 
If you call to him, he will stop. 

Hildur [drawing back from her] : Why should I do 
that? 

Helga [drawing her impulsively toward the door]: 
Don't wait, — not a moment, — or he will be out of call. 

Hildur [resisting her] : What do you mean ? 

Helga [eagerly]: If you tell him, now, that you love 
him more than ever, and that you will wait for him 
while he is in prison, — 



146 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Hildur: But that is impossible. I don't wish to 
marry someone who has been in prison. 

Helga [staggering back, as if Hildur had struck her]: 
But I don't understand. Surely if you love him — 
And besides, he is innocent. 

Hildur: Do you know this for certain, or is it only 
something that you believe to be true? 

Helga : I know it for certain. When he spoke about 
the knife, I could see at once — 

Hildur: The knife? 

Helga: It was not the blade of Gudmund's knife 
that killed the pedlar — 

Hildur: How do you know? 

Helga [takes from her pocket Gudmund's knife which 
she shows to Hildur] : This is Gudmund's knife. 

Hildur: Yes, I know it well. 

Helga: It has been in my pocket since yesterday 
morning. Gudmund lent it to me to cut the wild apple 
boughs which I strewed in the drive before you. And I 
left Narlunda without giving it back, so he did not have 
it in his pocket last night. 

Hildur: Then he is innocent, after all! 

Helga: Did you not know it, before this? 

Hildur: No, Helga, I was not sure. 

Helga [proudly] : Gudmund is no murderer. 

Hildur [looking keenly at Helga] : Have you told any- 
one of this? 

Helga: No. It is only now that I learned it. I 
shall go straight to the Judge and he will release Gud- 
mund. But first you must speak with him, — oh do, 
dear Hildur! that all may be well between you two. 

Hildur: First? Before he knows that you can prove 
him innocent? 

Helga: Yes, indeed! You must never let him know 



147 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

I have spoken to you; else he cannot forgive you for 
what happened just now. 

Hildur: I was very angry with him, because he had 
brought me into disgrace. But no doubt I was too 
hasty. 

Helga: Then come, at once, Hildur. Your father's 
carriage will soon overtake him. 

Hildur: But there is much in all this that I do not 
understand. Do you know that it was I who wanted 
you to leave Narlunda? 

Helga [simply]: I knew, of course, that it was not 
the folk at Narlunda who wished me away. 

Hildur: I can't comprehend that you should come 
to me today with the desire to help me. 

Helga: Gudmund has been very kind to me. I 
want him to be happy. 

Hildur [after a pause, looking keenly at Helga) : Why 
did you keep Gudmund's knife? 

Helga [confused] : I — there was so little time before 
I left Narlunda and I was much distressed — 

Hildur [with quiet persistence]: Did you forget it? 

Helga: No, that was not the reason. I wanted to 
keep it just for a few hours. I had nothing else which 
belonged to him. 

Hildur: I see. 

Helga: Yes. You see, Hildur. And I am not 
ashamed that you should see. Nobody can help loving 
Gudmund. He is so generous and good. 

Hildur: But why, then, are you trying to make it 
up between us? 

Helga [sharply]: What could I be to him? You 
know very well, Hildur, that I am only a poor Croft 
girl, and that's not the worst about me. He's as far 
above me as Mount Otterhallen is above our marsh. 



148 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Hildur: Well, I will go speak with Gudmund. But 
we shall not overtake him now. 

Helga: Will your parents let me ride to the town 
with them, Hildur? 

Hildur: I will tell my father to take you whenever 
you wish. 

Helga: I will go to the Courthouse, or to the Judge's 
house, if the Court is not sitting now. And he will let 
Gudmund go home at once. If you wait by the Cross- 
roads, till he goes by, you can't miss him. 

Hildur: At the Crossroads? In my wedding clothes? 

Helga: Leave the crown and the veil here. Then 
they will be ready for the wedding when you return. 1 
Your mother has on a dark cloak, hasn't she? 

Hildur: Yes. [She removes crown and veil and lays 
them on the table.] 

Helga : Slip it over this dress and no one will notice. 
Oh, come, let us go at once, to set Gudmund free. [She 
pulls Hildur toward the door.} 

CURTAIN. 



[ 149 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 



ACT III. 

Scene 1. 

The Courtroom, arranged as in the Prologue, but with no 
spectators present. Time, one-half hour later than the end 
of Act II. The Judge is discovered sitting at the table with 
papers spread before him. Helga stands in front of the 
table and the Constable at one side of it. Both men lean 
toward Helga in attitudes of absorbed attention. 

Judge: This is very important, Helga. Will you 
swear in court to what you have just told me? 

Helga: Indeed I will. 

Judge [to Constable}: Bring Gudmund Erlandsson 
here at once. [Exit Constable. — To Helga.} It is well 
that you are the one to tell me this. If it were some 
other person I should wish first to make sure that his 
knife is really Gudmund's and that it has been in your 
possession since yesterday morning ; but I know that one 
may believe what you will say. 

Helga: You may believe this, your Honor, 

Judge: Have you told anyone else about the knife? 

Helga: Only Hildur Ericsdotter, Gudmund's be- 
trothed. She is waiting for him now at the Crossroads. 

Judge: Then Gudmund does not know that his 
knife was in your possession last night? 

Helga: He must have forgotten, or he would have 
spoken of it. [Door opens.} 

Judge: Well, we will see if he cannot remember. 

[Enter Gudmund with Constable. He looks as if he had 
made a toilet, but still wears his torn suit of clothes. He 

[150] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

bows gravely to the Judge, and then with some surprise, 
to Helga.] You have a friend here, you see. [Door again 
opens and Erland enters. There is an elation in his face 
and bearing which he cannot conceal.] And here is 
Erland Erlandsson. What can I do for you, my friend? 
[Erland bows low to the Judge and glances at Gudmund and 
Helga.} 

Erland : I have a piece of evidence to lay before you 
in this case, your Honor. 

Judge: I will hear it in a moment. But first let us 
finish the business in hand. [To Constable] : Take note of 
what is said. [Constable bows — To Gudmund.] Tell me, 
Gudmund, do you not know where your pocket knife is? 

Gudmund [looks troubled and slightly shakes his head]: 
When my head stops aching I can probably remember. 
But I thought it was in my pocket. I always carry it 
there. 

Judge: Have you no better knife that you some- 
times carry? 

Gudmund: No. Only this one. It was given to me 
by my father when I was twelve years old. I have 
always used it since. 

Judge: Describe it to me. 

Gudmund: It has one large blade and one small one, 
and a horn handle with a silver plate on it. 

Judge: Is the plate marked? 

Gudmund: Yes, by my initials, G. E. 

Judge [corroboratively]: When did you use it last? 

Gudmund: Shaving kindlings, I think, yesterday 
morning — I can't remember having it since. 

Judge: Did anyone else use it afterwards? 

Gudmund [after a pause, starts and looks at Helga]. 
Why yes, of course. Helga borrowed it of me to cut 
apple blossoms. How stupid of me to forget that! You 

[151] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

remember, don't you, Helga? [Helga nods smilingly at 
him.] 

Judge: Did she return it to you? 

Gudmund: You didn't, did you, Helga? [Helga 
shakes her head.] Our guests came very soon, and Helga 
went away that afternoon. 

Judge: Is this the knife you lent her? 

Gudmund: It is. [He takes it in his hand and opens 
the two blades.] Neither blade broken — [with a boyish 
chuckle that breaks into something like a sob] I didn't stick 
the Outlander, did I? 

Helga: Of course you didn't. We all knew that. 

Judge [to Erland] : Can you swear to it, as your son's 
knife? [Shows it to Erland.] 

Erland: I can — O, your Honor — [His voice 
breaks, he turns abruptly from the Judge, goes to Gudmund, 
puts both arms around him and conceals his face against 
Gudmund' s arm. 

Gudmund [patting Erland' s shoulder]: It's all right 
now, Father. I didn't kill him, so, of course — 

Erland: No, thank God! You didn't kill him. 

Gudmund: But who did? Not Thorwald or Hugo, 
surely. 

Judge [who has been ostentatiously looking away from 
them, with a softened expression on his keen face] : That 
we shall see. But this clears you, Gudmund. When you 
have signed this paper, binding you to appear as witness 
at the trial, you may go home. [Helga clasps her hands 
in an ecstasy of happiness.] 

Gudmund [in a shaken voice] : I thank your Honor. 

Judge [who has been scribbling on a blank form, pushes 
it toward Gudmund and puts a pen in his hand]: It is 
Helga whom you must thank. 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund [signing the paper and clasping Helga's 
hand] : I do thank her from my heart. 

[Enter Martens son. Seeing Gudmund and Helga, he 
hesitates at the door.] 

Judge: Come in, Martensson. Can you wait a few 
moments? I will not keep you long, but some unex- 
pected matters in connection with this case have delayed 
me. 

Martensson [half sullenly]: I would rather come 
back later. 

Erland : I will wait, your Honor. Shall we go into 
the next room? 

Judge: Thank you, Erland. But you need not 
withdraw. [Erland, Gudmund and Helga seat themselves. 
Martensson approaches the table.] Now, Martensson, all 
I want of you is to find out what took place between the 
pedlar and the three young gentlemen while you were 
with them. Try to remember exactly. 

Martensson [after a pause, as if endeavoring to recol- 
lect]: The young gentlemen insulted the pedlar several 
times — at least Gudmund Erlandsson did. 

Judge: What did he say? 

Martensson: "Keep your distance, Isaac, I can 
smell you from here," was one thing. 

Judge: What else? 

Martensson: "You may be honest, but you're not 
decent," I think, or something like that. 

Judge: Did the pedlar reply to these insults? 

Martensson: I didn't notice that he did. 

Judge: Did either of the others address the pedlar? 

Martensson: I think not. 

Judge: Try to remember what else was said. Gud- 
mund has been cleared of the deed, so we must find some 
other clue. 



153] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Martensson [startled]: Cleared? 

Judge [darting a swift glance at him] : Yes. Why not? 

Martensson [sullenly]: How has he been cleared? 

Erland [coming forward] : Your Honor, may I give 
you my evidence now? I wish Martensson to hear it. 

Judge: Sit down, Martensson. Say what you know, 
Erland. 

Erland: Last night, from my window, I saw some- 
one passing our house throw into the marsh opposite a 
small object. This was at one o'clock, for I heard the 
chimes as I was getting back into bed. 

Judge: A small object? Perhaps a cigar stump. 

Erland: It seemed heavier than that. I thought 
nothing of this circumstance until this morning when 
Gudmund told us about the knife. Then I went into 
the marsh, where I thought it might have fallen, and 
caught on a hummock, I found — this. [He takes a knife 
from his pocket and lays it before the Judge. The Judge 
examines it in silence, while the Constable comes from the 
door and leans over the table to look, too. Martensson half 
starts from his seat, but sits back again with an obvious 
effort.] 

Judge: An M- on the handle — mmmm — Did you 
recognize the man who threw the knife? 

Erland: Yes. [Looking straight at Martensson.] 
The moon was bright and I saw — Per Martensson. 

Martensson [springing from his chair] : It's a lie! 

Judge [sternly]: Sit down, Martensson. You can de- 
fend yourself in due time. [He makes a sign to the 
Constable, who goes over and stands near Martensson. 
Then he unlocks a drawer of the desk, takes from it a small 
object wrapped in paper, and fits it with the knife. With 
an expression of solemn exultation, he holds the knife and 

[154] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

the blade together, raising them above the table, so that all 
present may see.] 

Constable [in his excitement moving closer to see]: 
By glory! [Martensson makes a dash for the door.] 

Judge: Arrest him! [Constable pursues Martensson 
through the door. Helga covers her face with her hands 
and turns away.] 

Erland [involuntarily]: Poor fellow! 

Gudmund [perplexed]: But I don't understand — 

Judge: It will all be cleared up at the trial. [He 
rises with papers in his hand and shakes hands with Helga.] 
Good-bye, my child. Are you going back to Narlunda, 
now? 

Helga: No, your Honor. 

Gudmund [authoritatively] : Yes, Helga, you are com- 
ing home with me. 

Helga: No, Gudmund, I shall go to the Marsh 
Croft. [To the Judge.] Mother Ingeborg has given me 
weaving to do at my home. 

Judge: That is good. Come to me, if you should 
need help at any time. 

Helga: I thank your Honor. [Enter Constable, 
puffing and blowing.] 

Constable: I caught him, your Honor, just at the 
door of the jail. He's locked up tight enough now. 

Judge: Thank you, Constable. Bring the girl Olga 
this afternoon at two — [Exeunt together, the Judge 
still talking.] 

Erland [shaking hands with Helga]: Helga, my child, 
can you not overlook all that is past, and come home with 
us again? 

Helga : You have overlooked so much in me Erland 
Erlandsson, that surely I — But I cannot go back to 
Narlunda. 



155] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund [impetuously] : You must go back, Helga — 

Helga: Oh, do not stay here talking, while Mother 
Ingeborg weeps at home. Go quickly and tell her that 
you are free. 

Erland [turning to the door] : I will drive to the door 
and take you both with me. [Exit.] 

Gudmund [turns to Helga, takes her hands in his and 
suddenly pulls her to him, clasping her in his arms and 
kissing her wildly. She pushes him away with a little cry 
of terror.] 

Gudmund [still holding her but ceasing to kiss her]: 
Don't push me away, my Helga. It is you I love. Long 
ago I might have known this. 

Helga [twisting out of his hold]: No, no, Gudmund. 
Don't say so. It is Hildur — You must go to her. 

Gudmund: Hildur! I want nothing from her. 

Helga: Surely you do not mean that, Gudmund. 

Gudmund: Of what are you dreaming? Hildur is 
done with me. She told me so, herself. 

Helga: But she did not mean it, Gudmund. I am 
sure she did not mean it. She was so startled with your 
news that she did not know what she was saying. No 
doubt she regrets it bitterly at this very moment. 

Gudmund : Let her regret it as much as she likes for 
all of me! I know her now! She is the sort who thinks 
only of herself. I'm glad I'm rid of her. 

Helga [putting out her hand to stop his words] : Gud- 
mund, you must not speak so of Hildur. Wait till you 
have seen her — then you will understand. 

Gudmund: I have no intention of seeing her. I 
want you for my wife. Will you marry me, Helga? 
[He tries to take her in his arms again, but she slips out 
of them.] 

Helga: No, no, Gudmund. You must not say such 

[156] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

things to me. Please go. Your father must be at the 
door. 

Gudmund: Do you not love me, Helga? 

Helga [hesitatingly]: Do not ask me, Gudmund. I 
can't love anyone now. 

Gudmund [slowly]: Do you mean since — ? Surely 
you don't care for him, still. [Helga turns away in 
silence.] 

Gudmund [hoarsely]: Tell me, Helga. Do you love 
that — Per Martensson? 

Helga [with averted face] : I can't bear to hurt you, 
Gudmund. 

Gudmund [after a moment's silence] : You cannot love 
a man like that, Helga. You are deceiving yourself. 

Helga [simply]: I am not clever enough for that, 
Gudmund. 

Gudmund [in a hard voice]: You love the man who 
has given you nothing and taken everything! And I — 
the damned scoundrel! 

Helga [faintly] : Why should we speak of him, Gud- 
mund? Go quickly and tell your mother that you are 
free. 

Gudmund [with a harsh laugh]: Free! Yes, I am 
free. But you — 

Helga [almost sobbing] : I am not free and never shall 
be. Now go — Don't keep her waiting a moment more. 

Gudmund [after gazing at her fixedly a moment, turns 
to the door, pausing after he opens it.] Good-bye then. 
We must go our separate ways, you and I. 

Helga: Good-bye, Gudmund. [Exit Gudmund. 
Helga stands for an instant with hands clenched at her 
sides, making a desperate effort for self-control. Then she 
shakes herself together with a resolute gesture, begins, 
as at the end of the Prologue, to slip off shoes and stockings, 

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THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

and hangs shoes over her shoulder. While she does so, she 
forces herself to hum in a shaky voice the folksong she sang 
at the opening of Act I., breaking off several times and 
swallowing hard to regain her self-control. Finally, she 
sings more strongly, opens the door, looks out as before, and 
exit, with an air of more settled cheerfulness.] 

CURTAIN. 



[158 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 



ACT III. 

Scene 2. 

Half an hour later. The Crossroads. At right front 
two roads cross. A grassy knoll with a few gnarly trees on 
it rises gently from their intersection and occupies the 
greater part of the stage. Behind on the left, the knoll 
descends and reveals a fjord in the background. 

Hildur is disclosed sitting on a low mound a little above 
the road. She wears her wedding dress, and a long dark 
cloak over it. She rises and peers anxiously down the road, 
but when she hears wheels and sees Erland and Gudmund 
approaching in the cart, she seats herself again on the 
mound and turns her face away. Gudmund sees her and 
stops involuntarily, then bows silently and starts the horse 
again. Erland bows gravely to her, but does not speak. 
Hildur rises and extends her hands to Gudmund, in an 
attitude of supplication. 

Hildur [in a faint voice]: Gudmund. 

Gudmund [stopping the horse again]: How do you 
come here, Hildur? 

Hildur: I would have a word with you. 

Gudmund [indifferently, after a slight pause]: Very 
well. 

Erland: I will drive on and tell your mother. 

[Gudmund jumps out of the cart and walks toward 
Hildur, while Erland drives off the stage. Gudmund seats 
himself at a little distance from Hildur, who has sunk down 
upon the bank again. He remains silent, gazing off ab- 
stractedly down the road. Hildur looks at him and then 
away again.] 

[159] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund: Well, Hildur. 

Hildur [begins to speak after a pause and with a 
perceptible effort]-. I was — yes, it was much too hard — 
what I said to you this morning. 

Gudmund [kindly]: It came upon you so suddenly, 
Hildur. 

Hildur: I should have thought twice. We could — 
it would, of course — 

Gudmund: It was to be, Hildur. But you are kind 
to speak as you do. 

Hildur [covers her face with her hands, then looks 
straight at Gudmund]: No, I am not kind. I was — 
contemptible, this morning. You see I thought you 
might be guilty. 

Gudmund: That was natural, I suppose. 

Hildur: No one who loved you, believed it. And I 
would not believe it now. 

Gudmund [warmly]: Would you not, Hildur? I am 
glad of that. We have all changed much since this 
morning. 

Hildur: But I did not change of myself, Gudmund. 
I don't want you to think I am better than I am. Some- 
one has told me that you are innocent. 

Gudmund : Why, how could anyone know? We have 
but just come from the Judge. 

Hildur [in a low voice] : Helga showed me your knife 
before she took it to town. 

Gudmund: It was Helga, then? 

Hildur: And she urged me to see you at once that 
I might make things right between us again. I wish I 
had thought of this before I knew about the knife — but 
I did not. But I have longed for you all day — and 
wished that things were with us as they were before 
this happened. 

[1601 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund: Do not wish that, Hildur. It is prob- 
ably best as it is. 

Hildur [puts her hands to her face, draws a breath 
deep as a sigh, then raises her head again] : I understand 
that you can never forget how I behaved to you this 
morning. 

Gudmund: I shall forget it sooner than you, Hildur. 
But you must not reproach yourself, for it was really a 
stroke of good fortune that all has been ended between us. 

Hildur: You think this, Gudmund? 

Gudmund: Yes, for today it has become clear to me 
that I love someone else ; and it would have been a great 
misfortune to us both if this had come to light after our" 
marriage. 

Hildur: Who is it, Gudmund? 

Gudmund: You would not understand. But I can- 
not marry her, so the name does not matter. 

Hildur: Why can you not marry her? 

Gudmund: She does not care for me — that is 
all . . But I shall never marry anyone else. 

Hildur [after a long pause, raising her head proudly]: 
I want you to tell me, Gudmund, if it is Helga whom 
you love. 

Gudmund: Why do you think so? 

Hildur: Because I do understand, better than you 
think. And if you are speaking of Helga, why do you 
suppose she came to me and taught me what I should 
do, that you and I might come together again? She 
knew you were innocent, but she did not say so to you 
or to anyone else. She let me know first. 

Gudmund [looking her steadily in the eyes]: Do you 
think this means that she — 

Hildur: You may be sure of it, Gudmund. No one 
in the world could love you more than she does. 

[161] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

Gudmund [starting up and walking hurriedly back and 
forth along the bank]: And you — why do you tell me 
this? 

Hildur: Surely I do not want to stand beneath 
Helga in this too! [Enter Helga along the road, shoes 
about her neck. They do not see her and she attempts to 
hurry by during Gudmund' s speech, but Hildur discovers 
her.] 

Gudmund [placing his hands on Hildur' s shoulders and 
shaking her gently]: Oh, Hildur, you don't know how 
happy you have made me. You don't know how much 
I like you! 

Hildur: See, there she is, Gudmund. 

Gudmund [running to intercept her] : Helga, oh Helga! 

Helga [turning to smile at them both] : May I wish you 
happiness? 

Hildur [coming to her and taking her hand]: I wish 
you happiness, dear Helga, with all my heart — you and 
Gudmund. 

Gudmund [taking her other hand]: Yes, Helga, you 
can't escape from me any more. 

Helga [looks from one to the other, with a question- 
ing gaze, then turns to Hildur]: But Hildur, why will 
you not marry Gudmund? 

Hildur [smiling down at her]: Because he does not 
want to marry me, Helga. You would not have him 
marry me against his will, would you? 

Helga [looking at Gudmund in utter amazement]: But 
surely you can forgive — 

Gudmund [heartily]: Indeed, I can! 

Hildur: He has forgiven me, Helga, I am sure. 
But he does not any longer love me. You can see how 
that might be. 

Helga [anxiously searching the faces of both for con- 

[162] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

firmalion of this statement and finally accepting it with 
drooping head]: Oh, I am so sorry! 

Hildur [impulsively putting her arms about Helga]: 
What have you done to us, Helga? — I believe, — why, 
I believe I really want you to marry Gudmund! 

Gudmund: So do I, Helga. 

Helga [radiant with joy]: Is it for me, then? — Oh, 
are you sure? [She looks from one to the other with child- 
like appeal.] 

Gudmund [tenderly] : Why not, little one? 

Helga [seizing upon Hildur in a kind of panic] : But 
I'm not fit, Hildur. You know I'm not fit to be mistress 
of Narlunda. 

Hildur [sincerely] : You are fit to be Gudmund 's wife 
and mistress of his house. [Gudmund reverently kisses 
Helga' s hand.] Listen, Helga. My veil and crown are at 
Narlunda. You have given me much and I want you to 
wear them, at your wedding. Will you? [Helga puts 
up her face and Hildur kisses her. The sound of violins, 
flutes and other musical instruments is heard approaching. 
Hildur and Helga, startled, draw apart.] 

Gudmund: It's the bride's escort. No one has told 
them. 

Hildur: I will tell them. 

[A number of young men on horseback enter, followed by 
a carriage containing several musicians with their instru- 
ments* One of the riders leads a beautiful horse with a 
woman's saddle on it. Another horse with a man's saddle 
on it is led by another rider. The men are in Swedish 
costume, their hats decorated with ribbons of bright colors 
and with flowers. Some of them carry guns. The first 
riders stop as they see Hildur and signal to the musicians 
to cease.] 

♦The escort and the musicians may be on foot, if necessary. If horses are dis- 
pensed with, the speeches referring to them must be altered. 

[163] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

1st Rider: Why, here is the bride. A joyous wed- 
ding to you, Hildur. 

2nd Rider: Have you come so early from Narlunda? 
We were to fetch you thence at twelve. 

Other Riders: Good luck to Gudmund and Hildur! 
Good luck! Good luck! 

Hildur [raising her hand as if to push away their 
words]: Thank you, my friends. We have come from 
Narlunda, it is true. But I am not the bride today. 
Here she is. [She takes Helga' s hand and draws her for- 
ward. Helga clings close to her and looks down in con- 
fusion.] 

1st Rider: What? 

2nd Rider: Has Gudmund married Helga? 

Hildur: Not yet. But they go now to Narlunda for 
the wedding. 

1st Rider: Are you playing pranks with us, you 
two? 

2nd Rider: Has there been no wedding at Narlunda? 

1st Rider: What do you mean? [They crowd close 
about Hildur and become very still. Gudmund steps for- 
ward. Thorwald enters, unobserved, and stands in view 
of the audience, listening.] 

Gudmund: It means that there has been no wedding 
at Narlunda. Hildur has decided not to marry me, 
after all. [Murmurs of incredulity and disapproval from 
the crowd. Thorwald steps forward and confronts Gud- 
mund.] 

Thorwald [hotly]: Do you accuse Hildur of break- 
ing faith with you? 

Hildur: Let me speak, Gudmund. I will tell them 
the truth. [She raises her head proudly and looks straight 
at Thorwald as she speaks.] 

— Since last night Gudmund has stood in the shadow 

[164] 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

of disgrace and death. — And I would not stand there 
with him. — But Helga came and set him free. So they 
found that they loved one another and today they will 
be married. [Turning to the escort.] Give Helga a 
salute with your guns and then escort her to Narlunda. 
[Thorwald stands gazing at Hildur as if in a dream. 
After an instant of amazement, the escort fires a salute. 
All the riders and musicians doff their hats to Hildur, and 
the rider who leads the unmounted horse , approaches Helga. 
Dismounting, he holds the two horses while Gudmund 
swings Helga into the saddle. Gudmund kisses Hildur' s 
hand and mounts beside Helga. The horsemen surround 
Gudmund and Helga. Thorwald moves toward Hildur.] 

Gudmund: But you, Hildur? You will come with 
us, will you not? 

1st Rider [dismounting]-. Will you not mount with 
me, gracious Hildur? My horse has often carried double. 

Thorwald [pushing impatiently forward] : If only you 
would walk with me! 

Hildur [smiling at him and giving him her hand, which 
he kisses, then turning to the First Rider]: Thank you, 
my friend. But I think I would rather walk. 

Thorwald [exultantly, to the horsemen, still holding 
Hildur' s hand] : We will follow you to Narlunda. 

[At a signal from the 1st Rider the musicians strike up 
and exeunt before the riders, who fire another salute, and 
then sing\ 

Safe shall we lead her, 

The bride of thy choosing, 

From all ill defend her, 

To thy hands commit her, 

O bridegroom triumphant. 



[165 



THE GIRL FROM THE MARSH CROFT 

[While they sing the first two lines, Hildur and Thorwald 
exeunt in close converse in the wake of the musicians. At 
the end of the fourth line the Holers gallop off the stage, still 
singing.] 

CURTAIN. 



166] 



THE FUNERAL 



[167 



THE FUNERAL 

An episode from an unfinished novel 
THE BEGINNER 



There was a great funeral in Forsythe that afternoon. 
The late Mr. Ira Cox had been wont to boast that his 
name spelled more dollars with fewer letters than that of 
any other man in town. He had been sole owner and 
manager of three of Forsythe's cardiac enterprises, — the 
Morning Gazette, the Cox Windmill Company and the 
Gilt-Edge Creamery. 

Before the hour set for the funeral the employees of 
these three companies gathered outside their respective 
places of business and marched in a body to the church. 
Gurney, passing the three groups, one after another, 
noted their clumsy suits of borrowed black, their non- 
committal expressions of decorous self-importance, and 
wondered cynically how they really felt. Did they ex- 
cuse to themselves now Ira Cox's hardness and his greed, 
perhaps even swelling a little over what a good business 
man he had been — at their expense? Or did they hate 
him dead as they had hated and feared him living? 

Two of the oldest printers bore between them a cre- 
ation of the florist's art representing in black and white 
immortelles the first page of the Gazette as it had appeared 
on the morning of Mr. Cox's death, with each of its 
columns heavily black leaded. Two of the veteran 
piece-men in the Windmill factory, whose wages, Gurney 

[169] 



THE FUNERAL 

happened to know, had not in twenty-two years risen 
above ten dollars a week, carried an equally appropri- 
ate and even more imposing replica of a Cox windmill 
done in white carnations and candy-tuft, — "pump handle 
and all complete," as admiring spectators noted. These 
triumphs were inspected with pride by all the contribu- 
tors thereto, but the employees of the Gilt-Edge Cream- 
ery felt that their committee had discharged its office 
in a poor and unimaginative spirit with the purchase 
of a plump pillow of white roses lettered I. C. in purple 
violets. 

At the head of Main Street Professor Gurney over- 
took Dr. Fowler, and the two were soon joined by Pro- 
fessor Rawley, the Seminary gossip, who emerged from 
his doorway with news exuding from every pore. He 
was a bald, florid, bustling little man, impatient of 
ceremonies. 

"Heard about the old rapscallion's will?" he de- 
manded without salutation. The tips of his stiff mus- 
tache bristled with importance and indignation. 

"No," answered Dr. Fowler tranquilly. "Has any 
one?" 

"Ah, how d'ye do, Rawley," broke in Gurney 
maliciously. Rawley did not waste a look on him. 

"Everybody knows. It was read this morning. He 
had it endorsed to be read on the morning of the funeral. 
Jim Leavens says he told him that his poor relations had 
no call to camp down in his house for the best part of 
a week waiting to hear the will, — the old skeezicks!" 

"I take it he has cut the Seminary off with a shilling?" 

"Yes. How did you know? I thought you hadn't 
heard." 

"I hadn't, till you told me. — I mean," he hastened 
to add, seeing Rawley 's blank expression and Gurney 's 

[170] 



THE FUNERAL 

twinkle of appreciation, — "I guessed it from what you 
said. Where does the money go?" 

'To the widow — every nickel. Did you ever hear 
anything so outrageous — so unprincipled?" 

"Well, I don't know. What do you say, Gurney?" 

"It's like the old chap, isn't it? A good deal of a 
practical joker." 

"If you call this a joke — ", exploded Rawley. 

"Well," conceded Dr. Fowler, placably, "no doubt he 
knew why he was made a trustee." 

"Well, if he did, wouldn't a decent sense of honor lead 
him to satisfy the expectations he had raised, yes, re- 
peatedly raised? You know as well as I do how many 
times he has refused to contribute a dollar to some crying 
need of ours and how invariably he has put us off with 
'When I am gone, you'll see that I haven't forgotten the 
Seminary'. You've heard him, time and again. And 
now — it's false pretenses, or something worse. I hope 
the trustees will break the will." 

"I don't just see on what grounds." 

"Well, a lawyer could see. And I hope they'll con- 
sult one. Oh, there's Dempsey." And he shot off with- 
out a word of farewell as the lank, drooping figure of the 
professor of homiletics turned into the street just before 
them. Hawley bobbed up and down beside him, "like 
corn on a hot shovel" as Gurney observed, occasionally 
seeming to pop with indignation. 

"Too bad to stir Dempsey up just before preaching," 
he commented further. 

"No doubt he's heard it before," Dr. Fowler assured 
him. "I imagine from the way he shakes his head, that 
Rawley is talking about contesting the will. I don't 
wonder he's so hot, poor chap. It's one under the belt 
for the Seminary." 

[171] 



THE FUNERAL 

"And how it does serve us good and right," observed 
Gurney. 

"It does that. Providence really couldn't lose a 
chance like this for a moral lesson. Any self-respecting 
secular college would have hesitated to put him on its 
board of trustees; but a theological seminary has no 
sense of humor." 

They had reached the church, which was fast filling 
with towns people, theological students and faculty. Dr. 
Fowler was seated next to President Hampson, who wore 
his customary expression of aristocratic boredom. Mrs. 
Hampson leaned forward and scintillated an individual 
greeting from her eyes to each of the two men. She 
made a point of marked cordiality to those who were in 
her husband's bad books. Was not this the whole duty 
of a president's wife, — to keep things socially pleasant, 
whatever the necessities of official discipline might be? 

Across the aisle from them and a little in front of the 
mourner's pew was Mrs. Cox, quite alone except for an 
old woman servant. The poor relatives had unanimous- 
ly left town, it would seem, after the reading of the will. 
The widow's rotund person gave no effect of being bowed 
by grief. Her brilliant cheeks glowed even through the 
dense crepe veil. Gurney, watching her from behind, 
was teased by the same question that the faces of the 
gathered employees had suggested. How did she really 
feel? But no satisfying answer was written in the trim 
crepe-bound lines of the erect figure, the slightly lifted 
head, the straight-forward gaze of the eyes toward the 
coffin and the pulpit above it. 

The preliminaries of hymn-reading and prayer fell to 
the lot of the Reverend Dr. Henry Runciman, the 
pastor of the church. His large, thick-featured face, 
hung with flabby folds of sodden flesh, wore an expression 

I 172 1 



THE FUNERAL 

of studied sweetness, as it would say, "Behold how a 
manly man bows his strength to become as a little child 
in the kingdom." He prayed that on this sad occasion 
our hearts might be opened to receive their lesson, namely 
that Death is no respecter of persons. Rich and poor, 
high and low, old and young, he spares none. Our time 
may be tomorrow — even tonight the Death Angel may 
knock at our door. Are we ready? Help us to answer, 
each for himself, this solemn question. Help us to be 
ready, to keep our light trimmed and burning. Help us 
to learn the lessons of the life that has passed from our 
midst, to note how often, as in the case of our brother, 
great, even surpassing, business ability is joined with the 
highest integrity of character, with unfailing respect for 
God's laws and institutions, with regular attendance up- 
on the means of grace. Our departed brother was no less 
a business man for those admirable qualities, — nay rather 
a greater financial success and a nobler example to our 
youth. Success is gained not by transgressing but by 
obeying God's laws. May we all remember this and be 
better men and women for this lesson. Bless and com- 
fort the heart of the sorrowing widow, that dear wife who 
made a happy home and place of refuge for our brother 
from the heat and burden of the business day. May 
she be enabled to look through her tears to a happy re- 
union in the land where there is no night and no parting 
forever. 

And then he prayed it all over again in partly 
different words and sat down while the choir sang 
"Crossing the Bar," covering his large fat face with a 
large fat hand, the stumpy fingers radiating upward to 
the edges of his fluted hair. 

Then Professor Dempsey uncoiled himself and stood 
behind the desk, silent for a long moment while he looked 

[173] 



THE FUNERAL 

at the audience as if it were not there. His slender 
figure had the tenseness of a bent bow. His eyes were 
caverns of smouldering protest. 

"We are gathered here," he began, in an intense, 
smothered voice, which grew clearer and higher as he 
went on, "to perform the last rites for one who has often 
been denominated the foremost citizen of Forsythe." In 
crisp, pictorial sentences, as unlike as possible to his 
usual flamboyant circumlocutions, he narrated the events 
of Ira Cox's early life ; how he had at the age of ten run 
away from a stepmother who had systematically ill- 
treated him, and begun his business career on the streets 
of Forsythe by selling matches obtained on credit from a 
friendly elder boy; how he had risen from matches to 
newspapers, thence to the proprietorship of a news-stand, 
thence to reporting on the Gazette and finally to its 
management and ownership, with the control of the 
town's two most important industries. "At the time of 
his death," — the words came more slowly now, as if drag- 
ging behind them some weighty meaning, — "he was pay- 
ing to more than twelve hundred inhabitants of Forsythe, 
men, women and children, the wages which bought their 
daily bread. He was thus, in wealth and in the power 
which wealth brings, our foremost citizen." 

The speaker paused, until every eye in the congrega- 
tion fixed itself upon him. Then a swift challenge shot 
from his somber eyes to theirs. 

"But in the house of God and in the presence of God, 
I ask you, what more than this can we say for Ira Cox, 
our foremost citizen? Was he foremost in all that makes 
a man truly useful in his life and truly lamented at his 
death? Who among you will answer yes?" 

President Hampson glanced uneasily away from the 
speaker and then back to him again, gradually steeling 

1174 1 



THE FUNERAL 

his face into an expression of aloofness and irresponsi- 
bility, faintly tinged by surprise. Mrs. Cox had paled 
suddenly and her rotund figure had wavered a little, be- 
fore it stiffened determinedly into the lines of her pre- 
vious attitude. She had given a swift involuntary 
glance at the vestry door, as if meditating flight, but 
checking the impulse, had forced her eyes again to the 
speaker's face. Thus she sat, as one searing sentence 
followed another, her cheeks and lips bloodless in the 
intensity of her listening, rigidly upright under the lash- 
ings of Dempsey's words and the glances that leaped upon 
her from every quarter of the church. 

"He had such power," the vibrant Celtic voice went 
on, "over the lives of other human beings as few men 
wield. Did he use it for their welfare and happiness, for 
the glory of a compassionate God? We pass over his 
business dealings, since this great game of business is 
supposed by those who play it successfully to have its 
own rules, apart from and inconsistent with the laws of 
human kindliness. Yet the game was here in Forsythe 
largely in the hands of Ira Cox, and its rules might have 
been so modified by him as to yield him profits only a 
little smaller and his employees a living wage. If he had 
sometimes, in his prosperity, remembered the little boy 
who sold matches and slept in the streets at night, who 
was never warm or well-fed until he had wrested these 
goods from the hands of a hostile world, would he not 
have been, perhaps, content with slower gains? If he 
had remembered what his young eyes saw of the life of 
the poor, would he not have endeavored, even at some 
small sacrifice of mere money, to put color into the faces 
of the women who worked for him, and to lift from men's 
shoulders the intolerable burden of daily anxiety lest the 
bare bread of poverty should fail? But none of these 

[175 1 



THE FUNERAL 

things were by-products of the business enterprises 
carried on by Ira Cox in this town. They made money, 
but they made no strong and self-respecting men, no in- 
telligent and hopeful women, no happy children. Do we 
ask too much of business, do you say, in asking these 
fruits from it? In your hearts you know that this is not 
true. This is what business exists for, not to enrich one 
man while it impoverishes and enslaves the many. 
Business is, like all the rest of life, our Father's business. 

"This truth, however, Ira Cox never, in his earthly 
life, came to know. Nor did he understand the true 
values of life outside of his business relations. I search 
my memory in vain, and I have in vain searched the 
memories of other men who knew him well, for one 
instance of public-spirited benevolence performed by 
him, for one offering made out of his abundance to re- 
lieve the necessities, or to lessen the hardships of any 
other human being. Can any one here recall such an 
instance? If so, in God's name let him speak. Is there 
in this congregation a young man who owes to Ira Cox 
his education or his start in a business career? Or one 
whom Ira Cox's kindly counsel saved at a moment of 
sore temptation and need? If there be any such in this 
audience, I conjure him to rise and let us know that this 
man's life was not lived in vain." 

The speaker paused in a tingling silence and looked 
searchingly over the audience, from pew to pew, over 
the lower floor, then along the galleries. At length he 
dropped his eyes with a low sigh of relinquished ex- 
pectation. 

"Is there no one? Is there not, then, perhaps, a man 
to whom Ira Cox once lent a helping hand when ill 
health and discouragement were dragging him down to 
failure? Is there not some one who can say out of a full 

[176] 



THE FUNERAL 

heart, 'The man who lies in yonder coffin gave me courage 
to go on in the darkest hour of my grief, by a warm clasp 
of the hand, a word of genuine sympathy?' " 

Again the long pause, and the slow searching of the 
audience, the disapponted relinquishment of the quest. 

"Cannot some widow here rise and tell us that in the 
anguish of her bereavement and her apprehension for the 
future, Ira Cox came to her, giving her time for the pay- 
ment of her mortgage and offering her work or tempo- 
rary aid to keep the family together? Will not even 
some child recall a punishment remitted or the tears of 
fright wiped away by this man who can never now lighten 
the grief of any? Surely no one here would hesitate to 
rise in his place in defense of one who is forever silent. — 
But no one speaks — There is no one who can honestly 
say that this man, living all but the first ten of his 
seventy-two years in this community, has enriched it by 
one word or deed of loving-kindness. The wealthiest 
and the most powerful man in Forsythe, he has gone out 
from among us, leaving no monument but one of granite 
in yonder cemetery. Poorer than that of many a hum- 
ble man or woman whose life 'smells sweet and blossoms 
in the dust,' his spirit has been summoned to the bar of 
eternal justice. May God have mercy upon it." 

He stood for a moment with eyes that looked beyond 
the audience, and then dropped quietly into his seat. 
The Reverend Dr. Henry Runciman arose with a per- 
turbed air, his child-like sweetness temporarily obscured, 
while in a voice which did not quite succeed in sounding 
as if nothing had happened, he read the closing hymn, 
"How Firm a Foundation". It rose feebly from the 
congregation at first, but soon swelled into tremendous 
volume, as if the familiar words and tune had put solid 
ground under foot once more in a world strangely shaken. 

[177 1 



THE FUNERAL 

Then the unprotesting body of Ira Cox was borne out, 
followed by those who were to attend it to the grave, 
and the audience melted away, moved by a common, un- 
acknowledged impulse to tell the tale to those who were 
not present and to gain time for reflection before com- 
mitting themselves to an opinion upon it. 

Dr. Fowler made his way out of the church before the 
Hampsons could detain him. He knew the President's 
practice of saving his own mental energies by getting 
some radical's view of any current event and then setting 
his own opinion in the opposite direction. Linking his 
arm into Gurney's, he said no word until they stood at 
his own gate. Then, 

"What do you make of it, Ned?" he asked abruptly. 

"It was certainly a magnificent exhibition of courage," 
answered Gurney. "And every word he said was true. 
I suppose it does us good to hear harsh truth sometimes." 

"Speaking the truth in love," mused Dr. Fowler. "I 
wonder if it really does good, spoken in any other spirit?" 

Gurney made no answer. 

"Would he have preached that sermon, do you 
think," pursued Dr. Fowler, "if Cox had left a hundred 
thousand to the Seminary?" 

"No, I can't think he would have seen it all so clearly," 
admitted Gurney. 

"And the suffering of that defenceless little widow, 
impaled on all those eyes, — " Dr. Fowler left his sen- 
tence unfinished as Ellen ran down the steps and ap- 
proached them. 

"How do you do, Professor Gurney?" she called. 
"Won't you come in and have dinner with us? We're 
going to have fried chicken." 

The mask of the clown slipped down over Gurney's 
face. He smacked his lips appreciatively. 

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"I just wish I could, Ellen; but little Lovejoy is com- 
ing to supper with me — if he keeps his courage up till 
six o'clock — and it wouldn't do for me to turn up 
missing." 

"O well, some other time," said Ellen easily. 

"When you have fried chicken," agreed Gurney long- 
ingly. "Do you have it every day?" 

Ellen laughed at him and turned toward the house 
with her father. At dinner he told her and Courtney 
the story of the funeral. Their comments and questions 
were in full tide when Mrs. Cox was announced, "to see 
Dr. Fowler on a matter of business." 

She sat very upright in one of the padded library 
chairs, dressed as she had been in the afternoon. Her 
eyes, however, were swollen with weeping and her round 
cheeks were almost colorless. 

"I s'pose you're surprised to see me, Dr. Fowler," 
she said, with an attempt at sprightliness. 

"I am very glad to see you, Mrs. Cox," answered Dr. 
Fowler heartily. "I hope there is something I can do 
for you." 

"Yes, there is." Mrs. Cox was visibly relieved at this 
opening. "You heard what that man said this after- 
noon." 

Dr. Fowler nodded. 

"Well, he had no right to say it." Color began to 
burn darkly in her firm cheeks. "It was true, of course. 
But there was more to it." 

"I thought there must be more," said Dr. Fowler. 

"There was," asserted Mrs. Cox fiercely. "And that 
pin-headed fellow had no call to say what he did aginst 
Iry. Iry didn't want to be like that. But he didn't 
know how to act different. He never let on to me, but 
I knew it. He wanted folks to look up to him and he 

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was top of the heap, but they didn't. He knew they 
didn't. And now he's dead — " Her voice broke, but 
her eyes were quite dry. 

"I'm sure what you say of him is true," Dr. Fowler 
said gently. "I wish we could have helped him more." 

She searched his eyes dumbly, then nodded to herself 
as if satisfied. 

"Most likely nobody could," she declared, hopelessly. 
"But I'm not goin' to have him spit on now by them 
that licked his hands when he had money to give." She 
was fierce again in her maternal attitude of defense. 
"I'm goin' to give all his money to the Seminary to be a 
memorial to him, and show up that pin-headed feller for 
a liar. But I ain't goin' to give them a penny of it with- 
out they kick him out and that stick o' wood of a presi- 
dent that backs him up." 

Dr. Fowler sat dazed in a torrent of new ideas. Mrs. 
Cox watched him anxiously. 

"I kin do it, kin't I?" she asked at length, since he did 
not speak. 

"Yes," said Dr. Fowler, rousing himself, with a half- 
audible sigh. "You can do it, quite legally, no doubt. 
There is nothing to prevent your making any conditions 
you choose." 

"Then I'm goin' to do it. There ain't no sense in my 
havin' such a pile of money myself. I couldn't spend it. 
I don't know how. I'm fifty years old now. When I was 
young I could of learned, and mebbe I would of liked it. 
But I've learned to live close now, and I couldn't live no 
other way. And there's some, old as I be, would marry 
me for the money." 

"Not if you see the possibility so clearly, I imagine." 
Dr. Fowler's voice showed no glint of amusement. 

"Well, I wouldn't resk it. I'm as like as any other 

r iso l 



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woman to be made a fool of. I can have all I want on 
five hundred thousand, and the Seminary can have the 
million and odd, if they do what I say. Will you make 
out the papers, Dr. Fowler? I want it put straight to 
them. They must fire Dempsey and Hampson and I 
want they should make you president." 

Dr. Fowler sat very still for a moment. Then he said 
slowly, "I thank you for thinking of that, Mrs. Cox. 
But the fact is, I don't want to be president. There's 
nothing in it but the name. And I don't care a fig for 
that." 

"Oh," ejaculated Mrs. Cox, disappointedly. 

"And besides," went on Dr. Fowler still gently, "I 
couldn't take it, you know, if it were bought for me. If 
the trustees and faculty and students all thought I was 
the best man, without being bribed to think so, I might 
take it, even though I'd rather teach. But that's not in 
the question." 

Mrs. Cox brooded darkly. "Most people'd jump at 
it," she opined. 

Dr. Fowler did not discuss the point. 

"Do you mean you won't take it, even if I put it in 
the papers?" she persisted. 

"I mean just that. But I'll write the letter to the 
trustees, if you like, which you can sign, stating the 
amount you wish to give and the terms of the gift. A 
lawyer will have to make the deed of gift, of course." 

"Well," conceded Mrs. Cox. "But will you see that 
he says what I want him to?" 

"I'll tell you if he hasn't said what you want, if you 
show the deed to me before signing it." 

"Look here." Mrs. Cox emerged with a jerk from a 
darkened silence. "There's something you don't like 
about this, and I don't know what it is." 



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Dr. Fowler nodded acquiescence, but did not speak. 

"Ain't it a good thing," she demanded, "to use Iry's 
money for a memorial to him and throw that feller's lies 
back in his teeth?" 

"I think it's a fine thing, Mrs. Cox, to make us re- 
member him by such a gift. And I agree with you that 
it's the sort of thing Mr. Cox would have liked to do, if 
he had known how. But why do you choose the Semi- 
nary rather than any other institution?" 

"Why it's the only thing he was ever trustee of. Of 
course I could build a big hospital or something. But if 
I give it to the Seminary, I can make them fire Dempsey 
and Hampson." 

"Yes." Dr. Fowler's voice was so low that she had to 
lean forward in her chair to catch his words. "But is 
that the kind of memorial you want to leave for Mr. 
Cox? He was not a mean man or a revengeful man." 

"No, he wa'nt. But that skunk Dempsey — I'll get 
even with him, if I spend the last cent of Iry's money." 

"Think it over, Mrs. Cox, will you? What if you 
should get 'way ahead of him, instead of merely even 
with him? And I can't think of anything better for 
that than to give this money to the Seminary without 
any conditions, unless, perhaps, you wanted to provide 
that the name be changed to the Cox Theological Semi- 
nary." 

"Dr. Fowler, you're workin' me," accused Mrs. Cox. 
Dr. Fowler laughed, 

"No, Mrs. Cox, I'm not, unless you choose to be 
worked. I'm only giving you the advice I'd like to have 
somebody give me in the same place. It's nothing to 
me, you know, one way or another. But I wish you'd 
think it over, to-night." 

"Now, Dr. Fowler, you don't reely think I'm goin' to 

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take that skunk's back-talk aginst Iry, and hand him 
out a boquet for it. That ain't common sense." 

"It seems to me like uncommon sense, though. I be- 
lieve it would set Mr. Cox's name higher in the com- 
munity than any gift that had a touch of spite in it." 

"Why they might even think he got the money for the 
Seminary by his low-down talk," expostulated Mrs. 
Cox. 

"No, I hardly think so. You see it's not the usual way 
of meeting an unkindness. And Mr. Cox so often spoke 
of leaving the Seminary something in his will, that I 
should think you would be quite justified in saying that 
you give the money to carry out intentions which he had 
frequently expressed. I'll put that in the letter if you 
like." 

Mrs. Cox gripped the arms of her chair. "Land sakes, 
Dr. Fowler, you certainly had ought to be president of 
something. I declare I have to take a holt of my chair 
to keep from saying aye, yes and no, just as you want me 
to. But I ain't goin' to give up seein' Dempsey squirm, 
no, I kin tell you." 

"If I were Dempsey, I think I should squirm more if 
you gave the money over my head, so to speak," de- 
clared Dr. Fowler, with a chuckle. "Anyhow, it's a me- 
morial to Mr. Cox, isn't it? and not to what Dempsey 
has said or hasn't said. But don't say aye, yes or no 
now. Think it over till morning and let me know." 

"Well, I'll think it over," promised Mrs. Cox, rising 
from her chair. "But I don't guess I'll see it your way 
when I'm by myself." 

"All right, Mrs. Cox," as they shook hands vigorously. 
"You must see it in your own way. But I know you'll 
see it straight." 

Before breakfast the next morning, Mamie brought up 

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to Dr. Fowler a note which she said Mrs. Cox had left 
at the door. It ran thus: 
"Dr. Fowler. Dear Friend. 

I expect your right. I don't want anybody to think 
Ira was mean. Maybe Dempsey will feel worst this 
way. You can say in the letter they can have it if they 
call it Cox Theological Seminary. Thanks very much. 
Respectfully, 

Mrs. Minnie J. Cox." 



[184 



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